Tavington's Heiress
by Arsinoe de Blassenville
Summary: When William Tavington married a plain, serious, and very wealthy Colonial lady, his life took an unexpected turn. In England, Tavington and Jane face new challenges and uncover a dangerous secret. Chapter 75: The Summer of 1782, An Epilogue
1. Guests of the House

**Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or fictional incidents from the film, _The Patriot._ However, I have as much right to the history of the American Revolution as any one else. **

**Chapter 1: Guests of the House**

William Tavington lay sprawled on the huge carved bed, the early morning sun of May warming his naked skin. A slave brought in water, set the receptacles on the wash stand, and vanished soundlessly from the room. The outside of the larger pitcher sweated with coolness; the other steamed. Tavington rolled out of bed and stretched, a long, luxurious, bone-cracking stretch like a lithe and lazy cat. He moved to the window, and pushed aside the translucent muslin curtains. The delicate fabric teased his belly and thighs as he looked down at his strange new surroundings: the low country of South Carolina. He and his officers had arrived last night at their assigned billets in the great country house of Ashbury Rutledge, one of the wealthy "Rice Kings" of the colony.

As billets went, it was among the best he had ever had in his years as a soldier. The Rice King's mansion of red brick sat foursquare to the ground, anchored by the two great chimneys. The entrance faced onto a symmetrical courtyard of outbuildings composed of the same red brick. The first two, a kitchen and a laundry, were two-storied, and were better than most colonists' homes. Further down the courtyard, a granary and a carriage house continued the array of prosperity. Barns and stables stretched on either side—red brick too. The brick, he had discovered, was made on the estate; at Mr. Rutledge's own kiln. To the back of the mansion was the little house of the overseer and row upon row of slave cabins,

The plantation, Cedar Hill, was a place of plenty and comfort: almost smug in its self-sufficiency. The food at the table came from Rutledge's coops and sties, from his fields and gardens, his orchards and vines. Above all, the rice, the deliciously tender and subtly yellow rice, the famous Carolina Gold rice, was the mainstay of the dining table and the foundation of Ashbury Rutledge' fabulous wealth.

Outside his window, the plantation was bustling with activity. Unless one leaned further out the window and saw the lines of white tents, one would never guess that Cedar Hill was now home to a half-dozen British officers and their men, newly arrived with Sir Henry Clinton in April to help bring South Carolina to heel. The house was an easy hour's ride from Charlestown, and seemed remarkably untouched by siege and conquest. Tavington snorted. Appearances were deceiving. Most of the horses in the paddocks were now the property of the British Army, necessary replacements after their disastrous voyage to this treacherous shore.

A vigorous wash splashed water recklessly onto the pristine pine floor. The hot water eased his morning shave, and Tavington groomed and dressed himself with particular care. The long, dark hair was disciplined into its neat queue: a clean linen shirt rippled over his head, brushing his nipples into alertness. As he shrugged into the rest of his uniform and pulled on the tall boots, he smiled; looking forward to a capital breakfast downstairs, and looking forward even more to furthering his acquaintance with the ladies of the house—or at least one of them.

---

Selina had dressed this morning with particular care, Jane noted, in her favorite apricot silk trimmed with narrow white braid. A delicate white lace fichu tucked into her décolletage gave the dress a modesty it would have otherwise lacked. Her stepmother was more than three years younger than herself—only twenty, but already married three years to Jane's father. Today she was aflutter with excitement.

_It's clear,_ Jane reflected, _that Selina finds handsome British officers more agreeable company than an ailing husband, a baby boy, her distantly civil stepdaughter and said stepdaughter's former governess_.

Perhaps she should summon up more compassion for her stepmother. It could not have been easy to marry a man thirty years her senior—a man she had called "Cousin" all her life--and find herself in the lonely grandeur of Cedar Hill much of the year. On the other hand, Selina had never particularly shown _her_ any consideration.

_Maybe beautiful women are simply different from every other form of life._ Jane had never forgotten the dinner at which their engagement had been announced, an engagement that had fallen on Jane like a thunderbolt. She had never liked Selina Pinckney as they grew up, thrown together often since they were second cousins and close in age. Selina was everything she was not, and had reminded Jane of it—so very sweetly--at every opportunity.

Her father had hovered that day, goggling adoringly, the very proof positive that there is no fool like an old fool. He had not even spoken to Jane beyond an introduction to "your beautiful new Mamma." Selina had giggled, and pretended to kiss Jane's cheek, and then clutched at her greying husband's arm as they strolled away to tour her new domain. Jane's heart had been broken before, but she discovered that day it was possible to have one's heart broken in unpleasantly new ways.

Selina's chatter drew her from her memories. "—and his uncle is an earl! Imagine! Here in this very house!"

"I beg your pardon, Selina," Jane apologized. "Whose uncle is an earl?"

Her stepmother huffed indignantly, and Miss Gilpin, once her governess, now her companion, and always her friend, interposed smoothly. "Mrs. Rutledge was speaking of our guest, Colonel Tavington. His uncle is Lord Colchester."

"How very grand. Do you suppose he will eat humble bacon and eggs, or should I have attempted to procure nectar and ambrosia for such an exalted being? I fear I shall have to send to Charlestown."

"Oh, Jane!" cried her stepmother, "how can you joke about such a thing? I'm sure I am very grateful to Sir Henry for sending us such a distinguished gentleman, and not some of the hobbledehoys that have come with the Army." She simpered. "I thought him very handsome, and so dignified. Such a noble, reserved air. One can see at once that _he_ has lived in the highest circles!"

Jane turned to Miss Gilpin for her opinion, before the gentlemen came down to the breakfast parlor. The Englishwoman smiled faintly. "I cannot presume to penetrate Colonel Tavington's character on the strength of last night's introduction. I believe I need to see him in the full light of day to judge him fairly."

"True," agreed Jane, with a sly glance at her companion. "Perhaps we shall discover that he wears a corset and has false teeth!"

Selina gave a dainty squeak of horror.

Jane laughed, and added, "At least we may learn whether he is simply reserved, or if he is actually disdainful of his Colonial hosts. If he is, I shall not like him, though he were the nephew of _two_ earls!"

"Well," declared Selina, adjusting the set of her fichu a little lower on her breasts, "I am _determined_ to like him."

Tavington heard this last remark, as he came down the stairs, following the servant's directions and the delicious scents. He smiled, guessing of whom the lady spoke. Bordon stepped out of his own room and greeted his commander. Tavington paused briefly, and the two men entered the breakfast room together.

"Ladies."

The mistress of the house was a rare beauty. Tavington found his attention riveted by the young woman—for she was obviously quite young. The tiny pinner cap did not hide her shining golden hair, artfully arranged. Her skin, pearl-white and silken, begging to be touched, seemed a miracle in this place of blazing sun and heat. It was so fine that the blue veins showed in it clearly, the same blue as her lovely eyes. A shame that she was utterly thrown away on the querulous, sickly old man he had met last night when they had arrived. Rutledge had had some sort of fit, or stroke, or something of the sort upon hearing that Sir Henry had confiscated the entire rice harvest. Possibly that was why he was still here, while the rest of his fellow Rice Kings, the leaders of the rebellion against the King's authority here in South Carolina, had decamped for the backcountry or parts north. Their host's cousin John was the rebel governor, but so far the Rutledges had avoided any mention of him.

The fair Mrs. Rutledge showed him to the place of honor beside her. Tavington felt himself in high luck. He seated himself smiling, and let his eyes wander over the charms of his hostess until transfixed by the glare of the young woman opposite him.

_Ah yes. The daughter._ Dressed in a drab muslin gown she was quite overshadowed by the fair-haired beauty at the head of the table. Last night, Tavington had taken her for a paid companion or some poor relation, until the introductions made the situation clear to him. Among other things, it appeared that she was the de facto housekeeper, for she, rather than the lovely Mrs. Rutledge, carried the household keys. The sunlight pouring in through the windows shone mercilessly on the girl's mouse-brown hair, her sallow skin, her long knife-blade of a nose, and her lashless, commonplace eyes, hard with hostility. _Do we have a rebel here? Or just a sour old maid?_

The elderly lady, an Englishwoman by the name of Sophia Gilpin, was the daughter's companion, he now understood. Tavington acknowledged her politely, suppressing a shudder at a type he felt he knew all too well. Stiff, and he presumed censorious, she was watching him unsmilingly, on the alert for questionable conduct. He was reminded of one of his sisters' governesses—what was her name?—Miss Brodie. The same suspicious, watchful scrutiny: it had been an irresistible temptation to misbehave simply to satisfy her low expectations.

The breakfast table was generous in its offerings. He smiled to himself, thinking of military rations. Bordon caught his smile, and they shared a moment of companionable understanding. It was an agreeable thing, to be enjoying the food, the comfortable lodgings, the beauty of the lady of the house—all made more pleasant by contrast to their miseries of their voyage, and their hardships for the past weeks as they had slogged through the coastal islands and swamps before taking the prize of Charlestown.

Tavington considered this luxury, and reconsidered his impressions of the plantation. The appearance of self-sufficiency was an illusion. Not just the silk and muslin the ladies wore: there was the Wedgwood breakfast set, the silver spoons and forks, obviously more imports. The tea, the coffee, the sugar, the lace on Mrs. Rutledge's gown: everything brought home to Tavington the intertwined nature of the Crown's trading with its colonies. How could these colonies hope to function independently? Their laws, customs, their church—the very political ideas embraced by the rebels—all were English transplants, or derived from English ideas.

More of his officers joined them, the younger cornets grinning and jostling one another as they found places at the breakfast table. Tavington decided to indulge a little horseplay. The boys were so young, and had suffered so much—and he rather liked some of them. On the other hand, there was Mr. Fenton, who was a bit of ninny. He plumped himself down next to the daughter, as the only other young lady at the table. Tavington pitied his taste, but would have been more annoyed if Fenton had tried to insinuate himself with Mrs. Rutledge, whom Tavington had immediately marked down as his own object of prey.

Fenton must have brushed against Miss Rutledge, for the young lady flinched and gave him a resentful frown. Fenton grinned back, and sidled closer.

Miss Gilpin noticed her charge's distress, and observed acidly, "I wouldn't have thought such a skinny young man would need _two_ chairs, Mr. Fenton. Can you not sit still?"

Unabashed, Fenton looked at his plate, and stifled a guffaw. The other officers looked at each other, some amused, and the better sort a little embarrassed. Tavington ignored it all, admiring instead the white throat and shoulders of Mrs. Rutledge. The spinster daughter could look out for herself. If she were the prudish sort to wilt at a little frank admiration, she needed to broaden her knowledge of the world.

---

Jane pushed the boy's hand away from her knee for the second time. _If he tries it again, I shall stab him with my fork,_ she decided. She looked expressively at Selina, holding court at the end of the table. There was no help for her there. Selina was flirting shamelessly with the Colonel, batting her eyelashes and giving the man little sidelong glances. She tugged on her fichu again, as if unthinkingly, pulling it lower still. The man's eyes took in the tops of her white breasts, now entirely exposed. It was a revolting scene, and Jane's heart swelled with indignation for her father upstairs, ill and forgotten.

In a way, she could understand Selina's foolish flirting. The Colonel was extraordinarily handsome. Jane had not seen many handsome men in her life. Her experience did not extend much beyond their family circle and its tangle of relations, their slaves, and acquaintances she might meet in social situations or on the street in Charlestown. She had never seen a picture, even, of a man as handsome as the Colonel. Selina, she was certain, had never seen his like, either.

Her own flippant words about corsets and false teeth now seemed very silly to her. Sunlight did not lessen the man's good looks: his features were still as striking—and better seen--in the improved light. Jane could not find a fault in them, not in the mouth, the strong nose, or the pale, beautiful eyes. His figure was firm and upright, radiating strength and vigor. He was, in all honesty, just what a man and a soldier ought to be—at least in looks. It was a struggle not to stare. His voice, too, charmed her: its refined accent, its musical resonance, the hint of a purr in it like a panther lying in wait.

She gave her head a little shake, distracted out of her contemplation of Colonel Tavington by the stupid boy beside her. He would not understand her rejection of him; teasing her with pokes and prods and suggestive winks until it was all she could do not to box his ears.

"I am not needed at camp this morning, Miss Rutledge," he whispered, with a significant look.

"Really," she replied calmly. "How nice for you. Perhaps you can catch up on your correspondence, or take some time for some improving reading."

"We could read to each other," he smirked. "I know a book by Mr. Cleland that you might find fascinating."

"I've never heard of him. I am currently reading the letters of Madame de Sévigné. Perhaps you might find _them_ fascinating."

The boy looked rather foolish. "In French? I don't parlay-voo much!"

Jane smiled in a very superior way. "That will not inconvenience _me_ in the least." Seeing his confusion, she dismissed his efforts. "Perhaps it is best that we keep each to our own taste. I am certain that you can find delightful ways to spend your free morning that do not involve me." She gave him a thin, insincere smile. "Sorry."

Mrs. Rutledge had been chatting with Tavington in a rather vapid but pleasant way. Jane's conversation was now loud enough to attract her attention.

"Why, Jane! There's no reason you can't spend a little time with Mr. Fenton." She remarked to Tavington in a perfectly audible whisper, "A little bashful, you know. She gets so few offers, poor thing!"

Jane was hardened to Selina's cruel jibes, and answered very matter-of-factly. "Actually, I'm extremely busy today. I have meals to organize for a much larger household, laundry to inventory, my father and little brother to tend to, and that wool-work you wanted me to finish off for you, _Mamma."_

Selina's eyes nearly popped at Jane calling her "Mamma."

Jane went on ruthlessly. "So you see, Mr. Fenton, unless you wish to count napkins and towels with me—and very hot and tiresome work it is—you will just have to enjoy the prose of Mr. Cleland alone."

Bordon, hearing the name, looked up startled, not believing that even Fenton was such an imbecile as to propose reading _Fanny Hill_ to a young lady. His eyes narrowed. Perhaps it would be a good idea to keep a closer eye on him.

Too dense to notice his superior's disapproval, the young officer laughed, not believing Jane was serious, "You would banish me from your presence? Surely you would not be so cruel, Miss Rutledge."

Jane felt a familiar anger surge. She slashed angrily at her defenseless eggs, and found she could not restrain herself today.

"You know, when men speak of the 'cruelty of women' it always makes me laugh. We are at war, Charlestown has been shelled, soldiers are being killed in battle, and civilians on both sides have been robbed and murdered. Have _women_ done any of this? I think not. No. When a man calls a woman "cruel" he means she has not consented to be his plaything. I hardly think when men with swords and guns and women with mere words are put in the balance, that a rational being could find us the _crueler_ sex."

Mr. Fenton looked quite chagrined. Tavington snorted a laugh. "You are severe on us, Miss Rutledge."

Jane was too angry to give ground. She glared at him, a hot rush of resentment spurting inside her, hating the superior smile, the handsome face. "Oh, I imagine you'll survive my displeasure."

Miss Gilpin touched her arm, recalling her to herself. Jane fell silent, and Selina, terribly ashamed of Jane's outburst, left the table with a smile, a curtsey, and a sharp gesture commanding Jane and Miss Gilpin to follow her.

Jane rose, still glaring at Tavington. With a dismissive flick of her petticoat, she turned and followed her stepmother, back formidably straight.

---

The men continued to wolf down the plentiful breakfast. Bordon poured himself some tea and sat back, grinning at Tavington. "Interesting, wouldn't you say? There are secret fires burning beneath that prim exterior!"

Fenton was still offended. "I have not been rebuked so since I was in school! And at that, she's worse than my headmaster! I was just trying to pay her a little attention. You'd think she'd be grateful!"

There were grunts of agreement.

"--Probably a blue-stocking."

"--A satirical girl—when she's thirty, she'll be intolerable!"

"--You know what _she_ needs!"

Bordon whispered low to Tavington. "_You_ are not saying anything, I'm glad to note."

"What more is there to say? And why should I care? A dried-up Colonial spinster is not worth quarrelling with."

"Because, my friend, you should not dismiss Miss Rutledge so readily. She has charms of which you know nothing"

Tavington pricked up his ears.

"What do you mean?"

Bordon smiled, and glanced about to see if anyone might be listening. The others had turned the conversation to tomorrow's cricket match and were already into their second helpings. He lowered his voice even more.

"Miss Rutledge has twenty thousand pounds."

The words dropped between them, with a weight worthy of that mighty sum.

Tavington stared. "Really! You're certain?"

"Absolutely. A bit of useful gossip I picked up from some of our local friends. Although Old Rutledge changed his will when his son was born, leaving everything to the infant, Miss Rutledge has inherited her own mother's fortune. As she is now of age, she is fully mistress of it. She's a plum worth picking. If I weren't married I'd be after her myself."

"Sharp tongue, sour expression and all?"

"What does she say that is untrue? Encroaching behavior like Fenton's _is_ annoying. She's an intelligent and discerning young woman. As to the sour expression—it's only to be expected. She's nursing a father who installed a silly beauty younger than herself as mistress of the house. A father who also disinherited her for the new infant son. I wouldn't be very happy in her situation myself. Would you?"

"Then she should have married."

"Perhaps she is fastidious. And the war, no doubt, has upset the usual marriage market."

Tavington grimaced. "She's so _very_ plain."

"Pooh!" replied his friend. "There's nothing wrong with her that a better wardrobe and a French maid couldn't cure. Her features are regular enough: with a little rouge, she'd have the bloom she needs. She's been raised by that prudish battle-axe, whose own appearance proclaims she thinks such things a vanity. And you've only seen her in the company of the delectable stepmother, who could make many a prettier woman look plain beside her."

Tavington laughed shortly. "And so very _bony_."

"A little fattening up will do the trick. Come, Tavington! Don't be so fastidious yourself! You've come to America to make your fortune: here is a way surer than battle, and far less likely to kill you!"

Tavington tried to laugh again, but was silent instead. He had hoped to improve his fortunes with a good marriage in England, but many things had conspired to thwart him. Heiresses were not eager to ally themselves with the son of Mad Jack Tavington. His father's reckless career had ruined more than his own life. And his mother was so particular as to family…

He smiled at his friend. "I promise to think it over."

"That's all I ask."

---

Selina Rutledge, in the meantime, had plenty to say to Jane in the privacy of the back sitting room. She snatched some tatting out of her workbasket and began twisting the thread savagely, more interested in expressing herself than in keeping her work untangled.

"How could you mortify me like that, Jane? Whatever is the matter with you? What a way to speak to our guests! And Colonel Tavington—what he must have thought! He, the nephew of an earl, to listen to such ranting!"

"Oh, stop, Mamma. I'm tired of hearing about Colonel Tavington and his grand relations. What is Lord Colchester to us?"

Selina dropped her tatting and fanned herself, a huge apricot butterfly fluttering unsteadily. "And why, after all this time, have you taken to calling me Mamma? Are you trying to make me ridiculous?"

Jane kept her face straight, not even allowing herself to look at Miss Gilpin. She kept her head bowed as her stepmother sputtered her reproofs. "I shall never understand you! Miss Gilpin: speak to her, for nothing I say seems to help! Or better—" she flung out an impatient gesture---"let us have some music, Jane. At least if you are playing, you cannot further insult Colonel Tavington and the other officers—men upon whom our safety depends!"

Not thinking her stepmother deserving the compliment of debate, Jane sat to her spinet and began playing mechanically. A sonata by Scarlatti lay open on the music stand, so she played that. Fresh, brilliant; full of all the spirits she sometimes lacked. Selina was right in a way. If she were engrossed in her music, perhaps she would see no more odious flirtations.

Miss Gilpin sat beside her to turn pages. She gave Jane an appraising look, and then said, in her frank way. "There's no need to frighten _all_ the young men away, my dear Jane. You should bless this opportunity. South Carolina may not afford you a prospect you fancy, but the King, in his wisdom, has just sent a few thousand more straight to Charlestown. Surely _one_ of them will do for you!"

-----

**Notes:** Those of you familiar with my stories know that I have always posted a great many explanatory notes. I do not intend to do so in this story. If you have questions about the historical background, by all means ask them.

Chapter 2: _Curious Sounds from the Mistress' Bedchamber _


	2. Curious Sounds from the Mistress'Chamber

_Disclaimer: I own everything in the chapter but Tavington and Bordon._**  
**

**2. Curious Sounds From the Mistress' Bedchamber**

By the end of the week much of the British Army would be headed upcountry. The dragoons billeted with the Rutledges were struggling to replenish their supply of horses, and to rest the ones they had bought, borrowed, or stolen. Loath to bid them farewell—especially Tavington-- without some special attention, Selina had taken it into her head to give a ball. Miss Gilpin broke the news to Jane early the next morning, before Selina was even up.

"A ball!" groaned Jane. "In three days! How in the world are we to do it?"

"We _shall_ do it, my dear Jane. We have musicians, we have candles, we can set the cooks to work at once and order in what provisions we don't have at hand. I believe it a good idea. But it _must _be Thursday, for we are told the horses will be thoroughly rested and the Dragoons on their way very soon."

"I imagine a ball will make the British look upon us with even greater favour," Jane agreed grudgingly, "but it's going to be such an dreadful lot of _work_. And Selina will be no use at all, as you know."

"No, she won't be of any use—she ordered Phyllis make her a new dress days ago and will occupied with that—but as long as she stays out of our way she won't be a hindrance, either. And the ball will introduce you to the large numbers of new young men suddenly provided by Providence for your approval." She smiled thinly at Jane's helpless laughter. "There now, I've got you in better spirits."

"Yes—I must say you have," Jane replied, still laughing. "But I shall be too busy with our preparations to have much time for 'new young men!'"

She immediately told the house slaves about the upcoming event and gave orders for a general cleaning. A few looked horrified at the lack of notice: most looked resigned. Her maid Letty seemed the only one truly pleased. Letty was her old nurse Biddy's daughter, a few months older than Jane. They had grown up together, and Letty was now an accomplished seamstress and hairdresser, a pretty young woman with skin of a fine, pale gold, large, liquid eyes, and a sweet and lilting voice. Jane never included her in her otherwise harsh assessment of beautiful women, since it would not have occurred to her to place Letty in that category. Letty was very dear, and very pleasant to look at, but she was a slave, and so could hardly in Jane's eyes be classed with ladies like Selina.

Letty, hearing about the ball, was very excited for Jane and said at once, "You need a new dress, Miss Jane. You should order the carriage and go to Charlestown right away to Ma'mselle Renaud's. She and her girls can put something nice together for you in a day."

"I don't have time for fittings, Letty. I'm busy!"

Her maid ws not discouraged. "You said you needed some things for the ball from town. Well, then, honey, make your list and go, but let's stop first at Ma'mselle Renaud's and get your dress ordered. Next, we'll leave your list at the shops. Then you can see your Cousin Mary Laurens. You know she'll invite you to take luncheon with her, and by the time she's done eating and talking your dress will be cut out, and you can stop there again for a fitting before we head on home. They can finish the dress, send it out to you the day after tomorrow, and if anything needs fixing, Mama and I can take care of it. Please, honey. I like to see you dressed fine. You can leave Miss Gilpin in charge here."

It was a nicely organized plan, which Letty knew would incline Jane in its favor. Sure enough, Jane was tempted, and went from temptation to conviction. It _would_ help if she could make her special orders in person, and if she were already in town….

"All right, we'll go. And you shall choose color and fabric, so it will be your fault if the dress is horrid!"

-----

Letty was in her element at Mlle. Renaud's shop. She had seen and liked the woman's work on other Charlestown ladies, and had thought of her because she was not Mrs. Rutledge' preferred modiste. It was a pretty little shop, staffed by a number of free women of color, most of whom were darker than Letty.

It did not take long to choose the gown. Letty had gone to Charlestown with a clear idea of what she wanted for Jane, and had spent the carriage ride refining her concept. What Mlle. Renaud had available came very close to her ideal.

It was a silk moiré of a very unusual pink—not the bright pink of Selina's favorite roses, nor the pale petal pink that Jane favored in flowers. It was an entirely different color, stronger and with a hint of grey in it. Letty wanted it made up as a polonaise to be worn over a contrasting petticoat.

"I'm surprised you don't find it too dull," Jane teased.

Letty was not going to joke about something she took so seriously. "Men like pink on women. They don't know it and don't admit it, but they do. It's going to look just beautiful in candlelight. It's not too pale to make you look washed-out, and it will be really pretty with your pearls and with this." She produced a bag, filled with yards of fabulous Valenciennes lace. The shop-owner and her women all gasped and crowded close to admire the beauty of it.

Jane whispered, astonished, "Where did this come from, Letty?"

"Don't you remember?" Letty was astonished in her turn. "It come off one of your poor Mama's old ball gowns. You told me to take the trim and the lace off all her dresses when your new Mama came, 'cause it was yours, just like her jewels. You just don't think about things like this enough, Miss Jane."

"I remember now." Not wishing to say anymore in front of strangers, she simply told Mlle. Renaud. "Yes, I want the dress trimmed with this." The lace was worth a small fortune. No, a pretty large fortune. It was clever of Letty to salvage something so valuable, and then to have cleaned and stored it so carefully.

"There's twelve yards, two feet, and seven inches there, in some different lengths," Letty warned the women, just to let them know that it would be unwise for them to try to keep any back. Then she smiled. She did not get to shop for Miss Jane very often, and it was such _fun._

The petticoat was a problem. Jane already had one she thought would do, but Letty scoffed at the very idea, and selected some fragile white silk for the purpose. The petticoat itself could be made quickly, and the part that would show should be adorned with seed pearls. Ideally, the pearls should be sewn down individually, but there would not be time for that. Instead, strings of the tiny jewels would be anchored with enough stitches to make the stopgap unnoticeable to anyone but a practiced seamstress, examining it more closely than anyone could at a ball. In the time allowed, the seed pearls could be angled in a simple crisscross pattern. More strings would edge the sleeves of the polonaise just where the lace elbow ruffles began, around the décolletage, and all around the front of the skirt, where it opened on the petticoat. The pearls were too small to look excessive, but would give a subtle richness to the whole dress.

Jane's measurements were taken, and Letty found new trifles to add to the total purchase: a pair of ornaments to freshen Jane's white satin dancing shoes, for there was no time at all to replace those; some new white silk stockings clocked with pale pink. She paused, admiring a peacock fan, but forced herself away with a sigh, knowing that a peacock feather fan, however beautiful, would not go with Miss Jane's pink dress. She barely allowed herself the fancy she had for a moment, of herself holding such a fan, and wearing a gown of that particular peacock blue…

Jane saw her looking. "How about the one painted with flowers over there?"

Letty agreed reluctantly. She did not think the colors were an exact enough complement for the gown, but it would do, and she could see that Miss Jane's patience with dress shopping was at an end. There was no time for the perfect fan of her imagination to be created. The gown itself would have to satisfy her eye for beauty.

-----

They were back by the late afternoon. Papa was rapidly regaining his strength, and had been helped down to his study. Neither his illness nor his daughter's care of him had softened his temper. Jane stopped by to endure his usual unreasonable demands and criticisms.

"And what were you doing, leaving the house when your mother has so much to do to prepare for this ball? She has her heart set on it being a success. It will be useful politically for me as well. You only think of yourself, Jane. It's your worst failing." He looked grey and miserable, so Jane did not give him the retort on the tip of her tongue.

Instead, she kept her face serene and assured her father of her cooperation. "There were certain things we needed for the ball in Charlestown. I was afraid to leave the order to the servants, and I thought it wiser to see to it myself."

"And you went off with just your maid. I don't like that, Jane. With all the trouble nowadays, you should always have Miss Gilpin with you."

He was her father, so she did not ask him how Miss Gilpin would go about defending her from armed men. "I understand, sir. I shall always be very careful."

"And see that there's enough wine at dinner. I don't want to appear stingy before our guests."

He was her father, so she did not tell him that wine seemed to aggravate his gout. She merely nodded, and left when he waved her away. She would check on the dinner, and make certain he was going to be pleased with it. When Papa was dissatisfied with his food, she was always the first to suffer.

-----

After dinner, Selina presented her with the guest list, and Jane and Miss Gilpin wrote out all the invitations there in the parlor, while they waited for the gentlemen to rejoin them. Her father, feeling unwell again, retired to bed as soon as he and the officers had drunk their fill. Jane was glad of an occupation, as she listened with half an ear to Selina's outrageous flirting. It was infuriating. Colonel Tavington might be the nephew of an earl, but for all his grand relations, his manners were not grand. In Jane's opinion they were not even good. To take such advantage of her father's hospitality! She frowned deeply, and her anger made her writing careless. After blotting the third attempt at Colonel Webster's invitation, she crumpled the paper and cast it aside so angrily that Captain Bordon looked her way.

Hating the idea that someone had seen her lose control, even for a moment, she gritted her teeth and made herself write more carefully. The captain came over, smiling in his amiable way, and praised the beauty of her handwriting.

"And elegant script, Miss Rutledge." He included Miss Gilpin in his praise. "I assume it is due to the excellence of your tutelage, ma'am."

That lady accorded him a thin-lipped smile and a little nod, busy herself. Bordon took one of the invitations and displayed it to his fellow officers, pointedly including Tavington. "Quite admirable, wouldn't you say? Music and handwriting, and French as well. You are an accomplished young lady, Miss Rutledge. What say you, Colonel?" He gave Tavington an unctuous look.

Tavington knew he had been a bit too obvious in his attentions to Mrs. Rutledge. He gave the letter a cursory glance. "Very handsome." The other officers added a few conventional words of praise.

Jane felt it was all very condescending. "Surely you mean only that I am accomplished enough for _Charlestown_."

Bordon raised his brows in innocent surprise. "No, indeed. There is nothing provincial about such talents. You are an accomplished young lady by any standard. I am certain your dancing will be of equally high quality."

Selina felt enough had been said in Jane's praise, especially as Jane was being so churlish about accepting a perfectly good compliment.

"There's nothing like dancing to help people get to know each other. Don't you agree, Colonel?"

Tavington gave her a naughty smile. "Oh, I don't know. There are other ways."

Bordon rolled his eyes. Lieutenant Fenton, not understanding his Colonel's meaning, enthusiastically agreed with him. "Not that I wish to contradict a lady—but a good game of cards is also very revealing. You learn a lot at a card table."

This silly remark was agreed to eagerly by his friends, and within a few minutes a round game was decided on. Jane preferred it as a background to her writing since it was harder for Selina to flirt in whispers when all the officers were seated together, watching each other like hawks. Miss Gilpin met her eyes, and they understood each other perfectly. They worked on steadily, listening to the excited chatter at the table, until their stacks were completed, and sealed, and entrusted to the slaves who would deliver them.

The two of them then settled down on the sofa, covering yawns. At a pause in the game, they politely said nothing, but made a great show of weariness. The ever-alert Bordon, noticing this, apologized for the late hour, and to Selina's annoyance (for she was winning), the game broke up at the end of the next round.

"Such a long day—So many things to see to tomorrow--So delightful, but so tired---Don't let our departure disturb your game." Jane and Miss Gilpin prepared to take their leave, knowing that Selina could not stay there alone with a group of men.

And thus, Selina rose gracefully with a smile for the gentlemen, and cooed her good night to them. Jane bade them good night too, very briskly, and hurried up the broad stairs to escape Selina's recriminations.

-----

The house had fallen into a regular schedule with the appearance of their British guests. Jane was busy with plans for the ball, with tending her father in the morning, and sitting up with her stepmother after dinner to make certain that excessive flirtation did not occur. Miss Gilpin took a nap in the afternoons. She was not so young as she once was, and the business of the mornings and the late hours at night were very wearing.

Jane's only time to herself was in the afternoons, when she could get away and spend some time with little Ash, her half-brother. He was, Jane felt, the only good thing to have come out of her father's marriage to Selina. She had been bitter enough on the day of his birth, when her father, after a day of waiting, stammered out drunkenly, "I have a son!"—and had henceforth ceased to show her any affection at all. Miss Gilpin had prepared her for the financial consequences of the little boy's birth. If she had been left penniless it might have been a different matter. But Jane was well-provided for from her mother's side of the family, and little Ash had gradually won her heart.

He was growing quickly, a strong little boy of eleven months, toddling about, holding onto chairs and his nurses' knees. Biddy reliably lavished him with affection, and his sweet-tempered wet nurse Coral with all the milk his little belly could hold. He was learning to eat rice porridge with his little silver spoon. More porridge ended up outside him than inside, but he was a nice baby, willing to put up with the absurdity of solid food to a certain extent. And he loved Jane.

Jane loved him, too. Perhaps it was odd, that she should feel so much affection for the little interloper who had taken her father's love and property. It was true, though. He was a darling boy, and his parents, while proud of him, did not bother to spend much time with him. Jane found him a never-ending source of fun and interest.

Besides, she liked being in the nursery. It recalled many happy times to her, especially since Biddy still reigned there. In the hazy afternoon on the day of ball she took a few moments to visit, since she knew there would no time later. She ran upstairs and was met by Ash's shriek of ecstasy.

"It's my boy Ash!" she called, laughing, as she picked him up. "How do you do today, most excellent gentleman?"

He grinned back with a gurgle.

Biddy looked up from her rocking chair, where she was mending one of the boy's shirts. "We're having a good time today, Miss Jane. We're in just the best temper, and we had a good dinner." She smiled, looking over at Coral, who was gathering up some of the child's playthings from the floor.

"Well, I hope you've had some dinner yourselves," said Jane. "Coral, you need to keep up your strength. Why don't you run out to the kitchen and have a bite to eat? And bring something back for Biddy when you're done." The young woman curtsied, and left them. Jane knew she enjoyed the odd chance for gossip downstairs. She was a very good nurse, but she was loyal to Selina, and Jane wanted a quiet moment alone with Biddy. Biddy, like Letty, belonged to Jane. She had inherited her from her mother, and she trusted her implicitly.

She sat on the floor by her nurse's chair, and sat Ash down on her lap, facing her. He liked the tickle-fly game, and squealed as Jane buzzed and poked him with a fingertip. When he seemed more in the mood to be quiet, she let him sit back, cushioned by her petticoat, and Jane dropped her head onto Biddy's comfortable knee.

"What's the matter, honey?" A loved brown hand set the sewing aside, and stroked Jane's hair back. The three of them sat quietly for a little while, Jane silent, Ash making endearing little noises, and Biddy humming a favorite old nursery tune.

Jane sighed. "It's nothing, really. Or rather, just the same old thing. Sometimes I think I can't live in the same house with Selina another minute."

"Well, honey, it don't do no good to say you can't when you know you've got to. What's your stepmama done now?"

Ash grabbed her finger and squeezed with a roguish smile. Jane smiled back. "She's such a flirt. Ever since those redcoats came to stay she can't think of anything but Colonel Tavington this and Colonel Tavington that. It's disgraceful. She even flirts with him when Papa's right there in the room."

Biddy paused in her stroking. "Miss Selina was married awful young. She never had time to enjoy parties and balls like a young lady should."

"I hate balls. Selina's ball is completely out of control, and I'm the one doing all the work."

"Letty told me you're going to have the prettiest dress ever."

"Thanks to Letty. She's so clever about clothes. She saved some of Mamma's lace and it's going on the dress. Selina is going to be pea-green with envy when she sees it."

"Don't you worry about your stepmama, honey. You think about yourself, and make up your mind to have a good time. I'll come down tonight when you're dressing so I can see you in that new gown of yours."

Jane laid her head back so Biddy could rub her forehead. That was her one sure cure for headaches. "Miss Gilpin thinks I should be inspecting the soldiers for a husband."

"Miss Gilpin is a smart woman. If you had a husband, you'd have your own home, and you could get away from here."

Jane's heart contracted a moment, remembering. _Poor Ralph…_

There was no use in moping. She could still make a future for herself. "I'd take you and Letty with me, you know. Wouldn't you miss Little Ash?"

Biddy paused, thinking of the children she had been forced to leave behind when Miss Clarissa's father—Jane's grandfather-- had bought her long ago. Letty knew that she had older brothers, but there was no guessing where they were in the world, or if they were even alive. When Miss Clarissa had brought her to her new home along with all her other possessions, her new master had seen Biddy, and noticed her, and after a time had given her the prettiest little daughter, with softly curling hair and golden skin. Miss Clarissa had never said anything to her, but maybe that was because the poor young lady was so sick those last months. When she died, and someone was needed to nurse the spindly little baby that everyone said would die, Biddy had been there to help with milk enough for both little girls. She had raised Miss Jane, and Letty had grown up with her in the same nursery. She wondered now and then if Miss Jane understood that Letty was her sister, but after all, what difference did it make?

She smoothed Jane's hair, and said, "I sure do love little Ash, and I would be sorry to go, but he has Coral and his mama, and he'll be all right. As long as I have you and Letty, I'll be happy. You find yourself a good man, and get out of this house."

Ash was asleep, his head fallen to one side, and he was drooling a little on her petticoat. Jane gathered him up softly, and took him over to his cot. He frowned in his sleep, looking very wise, and Jane thought him the sweetest baby in the world.

She turned to Biddy, with a saucy smile. "I'll try. I know you're right, and Miss Gilpin is right, and—well—everybody is right. I wish I could meet the _right_ man."

Biddy looked at her keenly. "And just what do you call the _right_ man?"

"Someone wonderful," said Jane, turning around, making her full skirts swirl around her. "Someone who appreciates me. Someone who likes music and French literature, and who will talk with me seriously. Someone who'll take me to far-away places."

"Someone good-looking?"

Jane snorted. "I suppose I must be reasonable. I'm no prize myself, so I can't be too particular about looks."

"Miss Jane, you're a very nice-looking girl—"

Jane rushed over and kissed Biddy's cheek. "Said like a true doting nurse. Nobody else thinks I am. But thank you all the same. It's nice to hear it said, even if I think you may be just a _little_ prejudiced!"

Biddy took her hands, and said seriously, "If you find the _right_ man, he'll think you're pretty too!"

"Maybe the right man will have to be blind!"

Biddy gave her a light swat, and Jane hurried away laughing to check on the progress in the kitchen.

She galloped down the steps quickly, in high good humor, thinking about her new dress. _I can't wait for Biddy to see me in it._

At the landing, she turned and looked down the hall at the second floor of the house. It occurred to her to get a fresh apron out of her clothes press, and she turned off that way. The hall was silent and echoing. She walked more softly as she passed Miss Gilpin's room, knowing she was having a rest.

"Aaahh!" 

A soft cry of pain came from Selina's room. Jane started, and then thought she had better see if her stepmother was all right.

"Aaahh!" 

It _was_ Selina. Could she be ill? Jane scowled. If Selina took it into her head to be sick, after all her work—

A thumping sound. Jane walked more quickly. Selina's door was slightly open. Jane lifted her hand to knock, and then saw her stepmother.

She was not alone.

-----

Jane could not at first take in what she was seeing. Selina was lying naked in her bed, and the—man—with her was naked as well. Jane was startled just at the sight of her stepmother, whom she had never seen undressed in all the years they had lived together.

And the man. Jane forgot to breathe. His skin was nearly as pale as Selina's. He was slim and muscular, and his arms and legs were covered with fine dark hair. He was lying on top of Selina, his arms grasping her tight against him. His back arched, and Jane could see his chest, with a sprinkling of dark hair that shaded into a line traveling down toward his navel.

Her knees trembled. She could not turn away her head. The man's chest sported tight dark nipples. She had never thought about men having nipples. They were nothing like those on Selina's soft full breasts, large and rosy. He was bending toward them and took one in his mouth, sucking and pulling at it, worrying at it like a hungry wolf. Selina moaned and thrashed in his arms. Her white legs wrapped around the man's waist and her hands clawed at the powerful back. The man was moving, a deep surging motion that seemed as strong and triumphant as the waves of the ocean. A dark red spear of flesh impaled Selina, pinning her to the bed. Smooth white buttocks flexed, as the man thrust into the woman beneath him with an irresistible rhythm. With every thrust, Selina moaned; that wordless "Aaahh!" that sounded most horribly like the cry of a woman in mortal agony.

The man tossed his head back in rapture, and Jane saw his face, the face of Colonel Tavington. A responsive pang of anger and something for which she had no words flared deep inside Jane's belly. She felt frozen, but the terror of being discovered gave her the strength she needed to move sideways just a little, just the few inches that would put her behind the wall. She opened her mouth, trying to breathe without sound. Air rushed in over a dry throat. She licked her lips and swallowed.

The guilty couple in Selina's bed had noticed nothing. The sounds continued, the man's deep sobbing breaths, Selina's gasping moans, the thump of the bed, an undefined wet sound with every lurch. Jane shuddered like a rabbit in a snare.

Selina was an adulteress. There was no reason to treat her with respect ever again. She would burn in hell for her sin. Jane felt a hard bitter joy, thinking of what Selina would suffer. She would make those same ugly noises as she burned. Again and again and again.

The thumps were faster now. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thudthudthudthud. Tavington was growling like a beast; like a bull on a cow, Jane thought, despising him with an aching rage. Thudthudthudthud. _Oh God, cannot the whole house hear them? Is the whole world blind and deaf but me?_

Selina mewled like a cat in heat, and wailed, "Ah, Colonel, I shall _die_!" Jane clapped her hands over her ears, and leaned back against the wall, shaking.

The thudding slowed and stopped abruptly. Tavington gave a long grunt of satisfaction, like an ill-bred man after a hearty meal. Jane's upper lip quivered in scorn, and her thighs pressed together convulsively.

She must get away from these awful people! But how? Softly, she slid her feet from her shoes, and stooped to pick them up. On tiptoe, she shuffled down the hall to the landing, and even more softly, crept down the steps one at time. She reached the foot of the stairs, and collapsed suddenly; in a puddle of tears made of anger, and shame, and contempt, and frustration.

-----

Thank you to my reviewers. Your support helps me write.

**Next: Chapter 3—Dancing with the Enemy**


	3. Dancing With the Enemy

_Disclaimer: Don't own anything, not making any money off this, blah, blah, blah._

**3. Dancing with the Enemy **

There was a great deal of work to be done before tonight's ball. Jane threw herself into it, trying not to think about what she had seen. What could she do? If she told her father, he would have to demand satisfaction. An old, sick man in a duel with Colonel Tavington? The idea was insupportable. If word got out, they would all be disgraced, and her father made a laughingstock by British and Americans alike. No. No good would come of telling tales. She must find some other way to stop this abomination.

Could she go to Selina, tell her what she knew, and try to dissuade her from seeing Colonel Tavington again? Her heart sank at the prospect. She had never been able to talk to Selina: telling her to change her ways would be a waste of breath. Could she threaten her? Selina would probably know it was an empty threat—and that Jane would not dare tell her father.

She had no time to think of tactics to remedy the situation. She was just too busy at the moment. A dinner must still be provided for the household, a little earlier than usual. The dining room must be cleaned and then arranged for the ball's midnight supper. Linen must be approved, silver counted, musicians decently attired and kept from excessive drinking. The house must be inspected, and the slaves praised, encouraged, or scolded as appropriate. She dealt with much of this immediately, in a series of quick, imperious commands. Thinking it over, she decided she would dress for the ball immediately after dinner and then see to the arrangements for supper and any last-minute problems.

And not surprisingly, dinner was a nightmare. Miss Gilpin asked softly if her head ached, and Jane shook her head swiftly, blushing at the lie. Mr. Fenton, next to her, was pretending she did not exist, evidently fearing that he might be expected to ask her for a dance. In her turn, she tried to concentrate on the pattern of her dinner plate, but her father nagged her about the quality and quantity of wine to be served that night. When Jane looked up to answer him, she could not help seeing Selina and Colonel Tavington gazing into each other's eyes.

He was, as always, seated in the place of honor, by the mistress of the house. Selina leaned into him, her every move expressing intimacy. Her fingertip traced the lip of her wineglass in languorous circles that made Jane want to scream out loud. She had to get away, get away…

She left the table early, citing her duties, but there was no real escape. She must be present at the ball, which would begin in three hours. She hurried to the staircase, and noticed Colonel Tavington behind her, leaving the house. Seeing her look of surprise, he bowed and said, "Never fear, Miss Rutledge. I shall not miss your ball. However, I have business that cannot be delayed." He departed, and Jane stood there afterwards, suddenly noticing that her knuckles were white from her grip on the banister.

Hitching up her heavy petticoats, she turned and ran up the stairs. There was a quick scrabbling at the doorknob of her room and she rushed in, happy as never before to have this private sanctuary. Knees gave way as she dropped into the little chair at her dressing table. It was very small, and also served as her desk. It needed to be cleared of all her writing materials. Trembling, she set aside paper, inkstand, and the box that held her most precious memories. The latter she held a moment, and sighed. _If only Ralph hadn't died. I'd be ten miles upriver at Green Springs and I wouldn't give a hoot about anything Selina did…_

The face in the silvery mirror regarded her diffidently. No matter how often she looked in the mirror, the same sallow, plain face stared back at her. The same mousy light brown hair, the same long, blade-thin nose, the same nondescript eyes, the same thin-lipped mouth, too wide for beauty. Selina, at her most unkind, told her she looked like a rabbit. It was, she admitted, unfortunately true. She lifted her upper lip. _At least my teeth are all right._

Her heart was still pounding. She called Letty to her and began making her preparations. She reached for a scent bottle and stopped. Her hands were shaking so badly she feared she would drop it.

"What's wrong, Miss Jane?" Letty voice, as always, was soft and soothing, a drop of honey in her life's sea of gall. Expertly, she began brushing out Jane's hair. Jane sat still, allowing her maid to do her work.

Jane cleared her throat. "Letty---"

"What, Miss?"

"It's very important that I look nice tonight. I don't ask to look pretty—just as good as I possibly can. Please."

Letty paused, and examined her thoughtfully. "There's some man you want to look good for, ain't there?"

"It's not what you think. I have to tell a man some very harsh things tonight, and I don't want him to despise me. I have to be strong, and I can't be strong when a man is standing there, smirking at how plain I am."

"Don't you worry none. That dress of yours is as elegant as your stepmama's, and you've got your pearl necklace, and such. You're going to look fine."

"I know Miss Gilpin always says that it's what's inside that matters, but if men don't like the outside, they don't bother to learn about what's inside."

"That's true, honey," Letty agreed serenely. She found a pair of scissors and readied a curling iron. "If that's how you feel, we're going to try a new way for your hair, Miss Jane. I heard from Miss Danby's maid about the fashions in London. It's going to take awhile, so you just sit there and think about being pretty." She used a comb to part out sections near Jane's face.

"Letty, are you going to _cut_ my hair?"

"Just a little around the front and sides. Some ladies in London don't pull their hair back tight and up anymore. They're wearing it in a lot of loose curls around their face and ears—calling it the 'hedgehog' style. I reckon it would look pretty and soft on you."

"Letty, my hair _doesn't_ curl."

"It'll curl when I get through with it, honey. You just sit. And I'll do the back up in a puff and some more curls on the back of your neck. It's going to look mighty nice when I'm done, and real fashionable."

The shadows in the room moved slowly as the time passed. It was a lengthy process, and Jane found it relaxing. The back was done first, as the comb slid through the straight, light brown hair, separating out the hair to be curled at the nape. The rest was arranged with pins into a soft knot. Then, with a deep breath, Letty moved Jane's head up, down; turned it to one side and then the other; clicking the scissors reflectively as she cut, and then holding the curling iron _just_ the right length of time. The curls were pomaded lightly to keep their shape. It was startling the difference it made. The strong bones of her face were softened, her high, broad forehead was less prominent, and her nose did not look so big.

"I like it," Jane said in wonder. "I like it very much. It's a frightful lot of work, though."

"It won't be so bad, next time," Letty remarked. "I think I got the trick of it. We'll just do the curls up in rags every night when you go to bed, and for every day we can put up the back plain. It's pretty on you, Miss Jane. This here's your style." Letty paused, with another brief assessment; and then, with some hesitation, said, "Miss Jane, I know Miss Gilpin don't like it, but I'd like to try just a _little_ rouge." She saw Jane's frown, and hurried on. "Just a little, honey. I won't make you look painted, but I've been thinking about it the longest time, and why don't we try it? If you don't like it, we have time to wash it off."

Jane sighed. "All right, but I don't want to look like Selina or that Mrs. Simms."

Letty trotted out of the room and was back in less than a minute, carrying a small box. She flipped it open, and brushes and pots were revealed. "I bought this for you out of the money left over from buying Miss Selina's perfumed soap, that time she sent me to the apothecary. It wasn't much," she said, excusing herself. Jane gave her a rueful smile of acquiescence. Letty filled a little dish with water from the basin and brought it over.

This took less time, but was even stranger. Jane sat still while Letty's brushes tickled her. The rouge was lightly applied to cheeks and lips. Jane started when Letty leaned forward, forehead knit with concentration, and a thin brush coated with black in her hand.

"You need eyelashes, Miss Jane. Can't nobody see them the way they are." The task was painstaking and delicate. "Don't want to put too much on. Just a tiny little bit."

Jane held her breath, and forced her eyes open while the lashes dried. Then Letty worked on her eyebrows, fussing a little: wiping it all off the first time, and then trying again with a lighter hand.

"That's better. Now some powder." Seeing Jane's frown, she said firmly, "Now, Miss Jane, you've _got_ to wear some powder. Every lady there will be powdered, and if you don't wear it, you'll just look _odd_."

"Miss Gilpin doesn't powder her face."

"Miss Gilpin is an old lady, and I don't see anybody fixing to marry her."

This was unanswerable. Jane submitted while the rice powder was patted softly on face, neck, shoulders, and the flat expanse that she thought hardly deserved the name of bosom.

Letty then opened the jewelry box for the little pearl drops that had been a present for Jane's seventeenth birthday, and Jane slipped them into her ears. Jane's string of pearls emerged next, and in another moment was fastened around her neck. The cool, sensuous weight of the creamy pearls caused Jane to be acutely aware of the exposed flesh of her throat and shoulders.

The mirror showed her herself in a strange guise, and she did not know if she liked it or not, but she certainly looked expensive and fashionable--and for some people, she knew, that would be enough.

* * *

"And who is that?" asked one young officer, in the uniform of the 17th Light Dragoons. 

"That's Miss Rutledge, the daughter. Very elegant, I declare. Nettles," his friend laughed, "stop staring!"

"I shall ask her to dance with me."

Harry Nettles had been in America since the beginning of the war, and was now the lieutenant in command of the detachment of the 17th that served with the British Legion under Banastre Tarleton. New York and Pennsylvania had not seemed so foreign to him, but he had found South Carolina wonderfully exotic. To cap it off, here was a pleasant sight: a refined-looking young woman in pure pearls and ethereal lace, whose cheeks were the same delicate rose as her gown. She looked like no one else in the world to Nettles. "So her father is one of these Rice Kings, you say?" he commented, his eyes fixed on the young woman. "Then she must be the Rice Princess."

His friend Patterson shrugged, "I had heard her spoken of as quite plain, but she looks well enough to me. Not a goddess, like her stepmamma, but very well indeed. A remarkably elegant gown."

Nettles nodded, quite entranced. "I think she looks very nice. Come, we must be introduced."

It took some doing to make their way through the crowd. Finally, Webster of the 33rd saw them hanging about, and kindly presented them to their hosts. Rutledge was no more than civil and his wife, who was plainly on the watch for someone else, hardly spared a glance for the two ordinary-looking young officers. The daughter granted them each a demure smile and a polite word. Nettles thought her eyes particularly fascinating. They were not brown, but the palest hazel, flecked with green. _Quite unusual and attractive, _he thought. Nettles made his request of Mr. Rutledge, who seemed curiously uninterested in his daughter.

Yes, of course he could dance with Jane. "Jane, you haven't been asked for the first dances yet, have you?"

The girl cast her eyes down modestly. "No, Papa."

Her father snorted brusquely. "Well, now you have. Get along, get along."

And so, Nettles secured the lady to himself. Patterson immediately asked for the second two dances, and was just as calmly accepted. Both young officers felt the night promised no common amount of enjoyment.

Jane, for her part, was searching the room for Tavington. She had learned over the years with Selina how to mask her feelings. She flattered herself that no one saw _her_ looking distracted. Two young men had come forward to ask her to dance. In ordinary circumstances, it would have been a delightful thing, and would have guaranteed the evening as a personal success. They seemed nice enough, and Jane wondered who had told them to take pity on her. A few other acquaintances had admired her gown. An old friend of her father's had proclaimed that her looks were improving.

Her first partner led her to the floor. The minuets were beginning: each couple performing solo before the rest, in order of precedence. Lieutenant Nettles was talking to her pleasantly. She forced herself to attend to him, smiling faintly and automatically, but all she could think about was Tavington, Tavington, Tavington. A strong male body in the act of love, his muscular buttocks flexing with the rhythm of his thrusts. Selina's head thrown back in ecstasy— _("Ah, Colonel, I shall die!") _Jane's heart beat uncontrollably.

Lieutenant Nettles was still chatting in his friendly way, expressing his admiration of all the preparations, his respect for loyal men like her father, his gratitude at the prospect of her company in the dance. Yes, he seemed very nice, if not at all handsome. But then, who could be called handsome but Tavington, Tavington, Tavington?

It was their turn to dance. Nettles led her out proudly, noting her distinguished, reserved air. _She seems not of this world at all. _She danced very gracefully, which was hardly a surprise. But what struck him to the heart was the look in those wonderful hazel eyes, starred all around with lovely dark lashes: a look of the greatest intensity. The dance required that they maintain eye contact throughout, and Nettles was quite overthrown.

Jane looked into the honest brown eyes of Harry Nettles, seeing not her partner, but the ice-blue eyes of Selina's secret lover. The dance required all her concentration, and she and Nettles were silent throughout. The tune suited her feelings, a minor key in three-quarter time, stately and sad. Weaving and turning, slipping under his arm, leaning first toward her partner, then pulling away, it seemed to Jane that she was lost in a dark wood fraught with mystery, her hands reaching out to find the way. Their dance ended, and they gave each other the concluding honours, he with a deep, respectful bow, she with a sweeping curtsey. The impression that she was dancing with Tavington was so strong that when she looked up again as her partner led her away, she saw a strange young man instead of Tavington, and blushed deeply.

Nettles was thrilled by her response. Despite her proper demeanour, this was a young woman of feeling. He hoped to know her better. He still had the second of his two dances, and perhaps she would not think it forward of him were he to request her hand for the all-important supper dance as well.

* * *

Robert Bordon was enjoying the ball, too. A pity Harriet was far away in New York, but he would write to her tomorrow and describe tonight's entertainment and the strange, almost tropical land of South Carolina . He was considering sugar planting after the war, and this place gave him a taste of the climate, the sea breezes, the unusual, sensuous flowers. 

A delightful ball, though there were perhaps too many people for the room. Ashbury Rutledge—or more likely that silly wife of his—had invited everyone who might do them good. Sir Henry Clinton himself was here, and had partnered the lovely Mrs. Rutledge in the minuet. She was worth a look, but Bordon knew a shallow woman when he saw one, and she was no more than a pretty doll. Other women were there of more substance, the former Lady Colleton, still recovering from the unfortunate attack on her house, and her friend Mrs. Fayssoux.

And then there was their host's daughter, Jane Rutledge. Bordon looked, and looked again. What had the girl done with herself? She was much improved. Not a beauty, certainly, but becomingly dressed in a good color for her, and with a little pink in her cheeks. She—or her maid—had done something with her hair. Not bad at all. She was an interesting young woman, and Bordon decided to ask her for a dance.

Within the hour, he saw Tavington arrive, slipping in unobtrusively. His colonel caught his eye and came to stand by him. Tavington was looking very smug, in the way Bordon knew meant a significant personal success.

"You're late," Bordon told him. "You said it would only take an hour to collect your money from Debenham."

"The wretch was lying. He didn't have the money after all, and I put it to him that I must absolutely have it before we depart. Once I made clear the steps I was prepared to take if unsatisfied, he let have his horse instead." A predatory glee surged through him as he remembered. _Would you prefer my receipt for your horse, Debenham, or a bullet in your brain?_

"Troilus? That's a fine animal, and worth more—"

"Yes," Tavington smirked. "Far more. It was well worth missing a provincial ball. And then," he confessed, with an arch look, "I was distracted." _Such a victory always calls for a celebration, and the girl was more than willing… _

"You're a man of extraordinary stamina." Bordon dropped his voice to a whisper. "Our hostess will think you ill-bred if you do not ask her for a dance."

"True."

"And Miss Rutledge might expect the same courtesy."

"Oh, Bordon, _please_—" Bordon refused to be repressed and gave a nod in the young lady's direction.

"She looks very well tonight. If you ask her to dance, it might divert gossip."

Tavington followed his friend's gesture. There was Miss Rutledge, dancing a reel with Tom Patterson. She did look surprisingly presentable. The gown's color was very pretty, and the girl showed more animation than usual. She actually laughed at something Patterson said. Her curls danced in time with the music. How bad could she be in the course of two dances? Bordon was giving him good advice. It was a sensible thing to do.

"You're right," he said, with a resigned shrug.

"And remember," Bordon hissed. He then mouthed the words, _"Twenty thousand pounds." _

Tavington smothered a laugh, and set out to hunt the girl down.

* * *

Selina grew more wretched in the course of the evening. Tavington had not appeared, and she was besieged with requests to dance. By every rule of etiquette, she could not refuse a man a dance, unless she were to give up dancing for the rest of the night. Tavington should have asked her earlier in the day, but they had both been so occupied… 

Sir Henry, Colonel Webster, Lord Rawdon—they were all asking her, and there was no way to say no. If only Tavington would come! She had thought of lying, and saying that she was already engaged, but if he did not come, and she was left without a partner, she would never survive the shame. She had never, from the night of her coming-out ball, ever sat out a dance at a ball, save when she was with child and unable to dance at all. She was not about to ruin her evening, even for William Tavington.

But the thought of him, what he was like—really—distracted her. She had never imagined such pleasure was possible. As she danced down to the end of the set, she saw her husband, his creased and jowly face betraying his ill health. _He_ could not dance with her. He could not do anything to please her. With his gouty left foot, it was a wonder he was still standing there, talking endlessly about profit and loss with the other planters. He would probably being going off with them shortly to the card room, and she would be left alone. There was one set of dances left unpromised, the last. If Tavington did not come soon, she would have to give them to another. It would serve him right.

The dance ended, and people milled about, chattering and seeking out their partners for the next set. Jane passed by, looking positively rosy. Selina fumed at the sight of her lace. How had Jane come by such a treasure? Had Ashbury paid for it? It was a disgrace to waste it on Jane, who must have completely lost her mind tonight to prink herself out like some belle! Her hair was a mass of ridiculous curls. Selina regarded her contemptuously, disdaining such pitiful tricks. Jane must have thought she wished to speak to her, for she was coming her way, just as young Colonel Banastre Tarleton claimed her attention.

"A splendid ball, Ma'am," he declared. "But it will not be perfection until I have had the honor of a dance with my lovely hostess."

He was such a charming young man. So full of life. And then, too, he looked at her with such heartfelt admiration. "Sir—I—well, thank you, sir. I have but the last dances to spare, if you are not already engaged for them."

"Not engaged—never in this world. I should like it of all things, Mrs. Rutledge. I shall anticipate our dances all evening." He bowed with delightful spirit, and went his way.

She gave a deep sigh. Jane looked quickly at her, as if expecting her to say something.

Jane did expect her stepmother to speak. Selina's expression was very odd, and Jane, who had again considered confronting her stepmother about her conduct, paused, wondering if Selina was already ashamed of her wickedness, and ready to confess it right there in the ballroom. That might not be the most desirable situation.

"Selina," asked Jane, "all you all right?"

"Perfectly," she snapped back. Her angry scowl changed to something less definable as Tavington appeared before her, too late. His self-satisfied air vexed her beyond words.

"Mrs. Rutledge," asked he. "May I have the honor of a dance?"

Selina smiled brilliantly, feeling her triumph at his disappointment temporarily submerge her own. "Alas, you may not. Colonel Tarleton has just this moment claimed me. My entire evening is already pledged. Another time, perhaps."

Tavington seemed not in the least perturbed. Without missing a beat, he turned to Jane, and asked, "And you, Miss Rutledge? Are you spoken for, or am I too late for you to oblige me?"

Both ladies stared at him in shock. Jane was caught off guard by the unexpected courtesy. Selina pressed her lips together, and to her everlasting resentment, Jane replied, "No, Colonel Tavington, no one else has asked me for the last dance."

"Excellent." He was gone with a careless bow, already pursuing another lady. Selina stalked off in frosty silence, and Jane tried to keep her knees from trembling. She had not expected to actually _dance_ with the man.

It was Captain Bordon's turn, and he appeared, smiling and gentleman-like. He was full of intelligent questions about her life here in the Low Country, and showed a flattering confidence in her knowledge. He spoke of his wife and young children with very pleasing affection. One subject, as they danced, led to another, and he questioned her about young Ash, praising her sisterly attentiveness, and seemed most interested in her own views on marriage and family life.

Had he a brother here courting her, or were he unmarried himself, she might have understood him better. These were the sorts of things one wished to know about someone who might marry into one's family. Could he be asking on behalf of a fellow officer? Or was he simply a busybody? Men could be shameless gossips, as much as any woman.

The evening passed, dance by dance. Jane had never been asked so often before, and put it all down to Letty's wisdom about the color pink and her skill with curling iron and cosmetic brushes. In fact, she was growing rather tired, and was glad to sit down after the supper dance, when Lieutenant Nettles led her to the table.

He was a most attentive partner, filling her glass, seeing that she was served every delicacy the meal afforded. Like Bordon, he was full of questions, but unlike the captain, he seemed less calculating, and more personally interested. She was able to turn the conversation to other subjects, with very little effort. He seemed happy to tell her all about himself.

"My family lives in Surrey—at least my mother and older brother. Our family place is there. Being a younger son, I have to seek my fortune."

"And how goes your search, here in America?" She saw Tavington sitting with Mrs. Chesney out of the corner of her eye, and her pulse leaped again. With an effort, she kept her attention on the young man beside her.

"Very well—tonight," he answered with artless enthusiasm. "Nights like these make our days worthwhile."

"Gallantly spoken. But you do not intend to remain in America, do you?"

"I cannot say. I intend to remain with the army, at any rate. It's been good to me."

"You do not intend to settle anywhere?"

"Right now, no. That doesn't mean I do not wish to marry," he answered, and then flushed. "I mean, I think it would be delightful to be married and to follow the colors with a wife who enjoyed seeing the world with me."

Kindly, she assented. "It would be very delightful indeed, for the right sort of woman. She would need to be very brave and adventurous."

"Yes," he echoed, still red. "Brave and adventurous. Just so. In fact, Miss Rutledge—" Whatever he had been about to say was lost in the calls to resume the dancing. Jane's next partner sought her out, and Nettles was left behind with a gentle look and a quiet "Goodbye."

Nettles despaired at his own sloth, and consoled himself with the thought that they would not be leaving Charlestown for some days.

* * *

Jane struggled to pay attention for the rest of the evening, conscious of the coming dances with Tavington nearly to the exclusion of everything else. A few words with the butler convinced that the evening was going smoothly. Like an automaton, she smiled, and danced, and talked. It all grew more and more unreal. The guests, in their heavy, elaborate costumes seemed like actors in a play, their clothes hiding the real person within. Threads of pain laced through her tired head, and for one terrible moment, she imagined the entire room as naked as she had seen Selina and Tavington that afternoon. She gasped, and then gave her partner a smile of apology. 

When the time came, she thought for moment about running away, about giving her excuses and simply going to bed and hiding under the covers. Tavington could not pursue her there. Or could he? He had pursued Selina to her bed. And if not confronted and dealt with, thoughts of him would plague her, it seemed, for the rest of her life.

And so, in the wee hours of the morning, she faced Tavington on her chosen field of battle. A quick consultation with Letty upstairs had repaired her powder and paint, and had replenished the stock of hairpins holding her together. She was ready, and met him with all the confidence she could feign. Below the surface, she was a hurricane of wild ideas. one piling on another. Should she censure him for his betrayal of his host? Should she upbraid him for dishonoring their family? Should she tell him to leave Selina alone and find some other victim to torment?

He bowed before her with a slight smile. Another couple, brushing past her from behind, gave her a little push forward and Tavington caught her hand to steady her. A little spark, a touch of fire from heaven passed from his hand to hers; and a sudden, seductive thrill warmed her middle. Jane swayed on her feet, glad of the paint that hid her real blush with a false one.

She took a deep breath, which nearly proved her undoing, for she breathed Tavington into her very being, a spicy scent of man and leather and sandalwood and apple pomade. Her toes curled inside her high-heeled dancing slippers, and her breath came faster, in a confusion of fury and longing.

Tavington studied the young woman before him, more carefully than before. She looked quite fashionable tonight—elegant even. Bordon was an astute man: She would never be a beauty: her eyes were too small, her nose too long, and the thin-lipped, wide mouth was not one that begged to be kissed. Properly groomed, however, her looks were passable. The hair was charming, a mass of loose, inviting curls. The gown, a subtle and delicate rose-pink, gave the lady the look of a piece of fine porcelain. Her skin was clear, if sallow, and a touch of rouge had given her cheeks a becoming flush. More of the same paint on her lips made them look mobile and expressive. Her eyes were somehow more appealing tonight. He was close enough to make out their color. _Hazel. Rather interesting._

The hazel eyes were boring into his, an intense, angry glare. He wondered what he done to make her angry, and suddenly understood.

_She knows._

* * *

_He knows that I know._ Jane was overwhelmingly conscious of her hand in his. Warm and dry, it held hers captive. Desire sparked again, and raced crackling throughout her body. Her scalp prickled. She wondered if he could feel her heart beating. Surely the entire ballroom could hear it. With deep relief, she saw Miss Gilpin, seated far away among the chaperones, stifling a yawn. Her companion had noticed nothing. 

Jane looked back at her partner, as the dance demanded. He was wary, watching her carefully, as if weighing the odds of her denouncing him in public. Lightheaded, she wondered what was about to come out of her mouth.

"Choose me instead," she said, with unnatural calm. _(Ah, Colonel, I shall die!)_

"I don't think I quite understand you, Madam—"

"Marry me." Her heart nearly stopped, but she could not unsay the words.

He nearly made a wrong move then, so startled was he. "_Marry _you?"

"Yes," she blurted out, more desperately than she would have liked. "I've heard you're a man in need of a fortune. I'm a woman in need of a husband."

He narrowed those glittering pale eyes. "You could have married years ago."

Helplessly, she found herself babbling the awful truth. "It's been impossible for Papa to find me anyone in the past few years, with most of the men embroiled in politics or the war. The usual arrangements have been interrupted. That's how Papa was able to snare Selina, who might have held out for a younger man in other times."

She nearly bit her tongue, hating herself for mentioning Selina, hating the man opposite her for the complacent look in his eye at the sound of her name. _He has a line of dark hair running from his navel…It looks like it would be soft to the touch…_"Besides, if I married a Carolina man, I might find myself living next door to my father and stepmother. You do not plan on living in Charlestown after the war, I trust?"

"Hardly."

"I want to get away." _Yes, this is what I want._

"Where?"

"Anywhere but here." _I shall have to be brave and adventurous…_

There was a turn in the dance, and Tavington was temporarily facing another lady. It gave him a half a minute to collect his thoughts. When the girl and he were once again united, he saw that she was blushing furiously, but not daunted.

Jane was dazzled by him, but certainly not daunted. _How could I be intimidated by a red coat, when I can see him in my mind's eye, naked as Adam in Eden?_

She said bluntly, "I have twenty thousand pounds."

"So I have heard."

_Heard,_ she wondered. _From whom?_ She thought of Captain Bordon, with his incessant questions. Had Tavington sent him to sound her out? The thought gave her hope.

"You would return to England a rich man."

"Twenty thousand pounds is not a contemptible sum, I agree." He took her hand once more, and they completed the series of complex figures in silence. Finally, he asked, "Am I to take you seriously?"

"Entirely." She forced her face into a frown, to prevent the opposite, a silly nervous grin. _Might he someday kiss my breasts, the way he kissed Selina's?_ Blood pounded in her head.

The dance was over. The ball was over. Tavington bowed, gave her a long, cool look, said, "We must speak more of this," and left her.

Jane, feeling rather flat, pulled herself together and went to join Selina and her father, now accepting everyone's thanks and wishing everyone Godspeed. She grew tired of this almost immediately, and found a little chair behind a drapery to fall into. Surreptitiously, she slid out of her slippers. Her feet throbbed painfully, unused to so much dancing.

The fate of eavesdroppers was hers almost immediately, for a clutch of Selina's cousins passed by, with plenty to say about the evening.

"Selina is wild to get Jane off her hands."

"Well, you can't say she didn't do her best tonight. That dress must have cost the earth. The lace—Valenciennes, you know…"

"I guess she sent her own maid to her to do something with that mousy hair. She did look as well tonight as I've ever seen her."

"I suppose Selina thinks it's now or never. Jane's right close to twenty-five, you know."

"Well, it's hard for her, poor thing, plain as she is. And Clarissa Rutledge was such a beauty."

They sighed, in unison, with insufferable compassion. Jane wondered what they would do if she jumped out at them and said "Boo!" She might have let it all go, but for the final, unforgivable piece of impertinence.

"Well, even her twenty thousand pounds may not be enough to buy a man!"

Giggles followed. Her patience at an end, Jane rose and swept past the odious women, her skirts brushing theirs. She turned her head and gave them a superior, cold smile, laughing inwardly at their confusion.

_I'll show them. And my twenty thousand pounds will be quite enough, I think._

Only when she reached the solitude of her own room did she realize that her dancing slippers were still in the ballroom, and that she had walked all the way in her new silk stockings, unnoticed by her or anyone else.

* * *

**Next: Chapter**:** 4--The Language of Fans**

Note: This universe contains both Tarleton and Tavington, and Tarleton's British Legion and Tavington's Green Dragoons are separate units.

Thanks so much to my kind reviewers!


	4. The Language of Fans

_Disclaimer: Don't own it. Don't sue me._

**Chapter 4. The Language of Fans**

The ball was over, and the carriages were called for the guests; but some, like the British officers in residence at Cedar Hill, did not even rise from their whist tables. Money changed hands rapidly, and there were cries and exclamations and discreet curses. One of the games had been particularly exciting, and had collected a group of onlookers. It was now, however, at an end.

Tavington threw his hand down in disgust, while Bordon grinned triumphantly, raking in his winnings.

"I'm a very great fool to play cards with you."

"Not so very great a fool. I do let you win occasionally."

There was general laughter at the table, in which Tavington joined. Losing gracefully was the mark of a gentleman. He kept the smile on his face, as he rose and declared himself cleaned out for the night. It was a relief that the hour was so late. The lavish supper, the generous supply of wine, the long hours of dancing and flirting and playing cards had all combined to make him a little light-headed. The British officers resident at the house might still be enjoying their cards, but most of the guests had departed. Rutledge and the fair Selina were seeing the last of them off.

Rutledge looked very ill. Tavington wondered what was keeping him on his feet. Possibly the vision of the luscious Selina beside him. Now _there _was a filly with staying power. Tavington chuckled slightly to himself as he made his way through the shambles of the ballroom toward the broad staircase. He caught her eye as he passed, and gave her a slight bow. She saw him, and very casually flicked open her painted fan, in the secret code known to all who ever trod a ballroom.

In the language of fans, a fan fully opened meant, _Wait for me._ Selina briefly glanced up to the floor above. Understanding her perfectly. Tavington smiled to himself, and went upstairs.

The servants had been to his room, and had left it tidy: lit by a candle, and supplied with a pitcher of fresh water. The window was shut, and Tavington threw the sash wide, letting the night breeze refresh him. He then gratefully stripped off his cravat, his jacket, even his shirt, and rejoiced in a cooling wash. The rest of his uniform followed, and he fell back on the comfortable bed, glad to lie down.

_Mustn't fall asleep, though,_ he reminded himself. _Mustn't disappoint my charming hostess._ He had enjoyed his stay here at Cedar Hill. Unequalled hospitality. He would be gone in a few days—probably by Sunday, if he understood Sir Henry correctly. A soldier's life was full of meetings and partings.

Then, reluctantly, he made himself think about his encounter with Jane Rutledge. What had _that_ been all about? The girl plainly knew of his amour with her stepmother, and instead of screaming the house down, had brazenly proposed marriage to him! What could she be thinking?

He turned the puzzle over in his mind. Perhaps she wanted a sort of revenge. Marrying him would be a finger in the eye of the disliked stepmother, and possibly the girl thought it would prevent further intrigue. _Little innocent._

_Anywhere but here,_ she had said. Perhaps Miss Rutledge truly wanted to get away: to escape her father's house, to see the world, to leave Charlestown behind. But why _him?_

_I really did not think the girl fancied me so, but evidently she does._ He smirked complacently. She would not be the first clever young woman to lose her wits over him.

She had really looked rather—nice—tonight. If he were looking for a night's pleasure, she would not be his choice, but still, given the occasion—she had looked nice enough. Bordon was very astute: well groomed, well coiffed, and elegantly gowned, Miss Rutledge looked perfectly the lady. She made a very good appearance, and had danced gracefully. Her father had every reason to be satisfied with her demeanour and accomplishments.

Except he seemed quite oblivious. There was some trouble there, he divined. The father was indifferent and distant: the stepmother spiteful and—he must admit—a woman of dubious honor. The poor girl must have a sad life between them. All right then, he could better understand her desire to leave.

But why _him?_ Bordon would approve, no doubt. He would assume that very satisfied look he always had when manipulating Tavington successfully—for his own good. Blast!

If only the girl were a little more attractive! A ladylike appearance was all very well, and essential in a woman who would bear one's name—but that was not all Tavington hoped for in a marriage. A pretty girl, at least—one who could stir him, could please his eye, could satisfy his taste in their intimate moments—that kind of girl would grant him the domestic life that would be worth the having.

Now, Selina's exquisite body stuffed full of Miss Jane's accomplishments and principles—now _that_ would be an agreeable thing!

Ah, but then there was the money. Everything, ultimately, always came down to the money. Miss Jane was the mistress of twenty thousand pounds. Depending on the way it was invested, it probably yielded her a yearly income of between eight hundred to a thousand pounds. A good round sum. Its very roundness, in fact, made up somewhat for poor Miss Jane's distinct lack of that quality. The girl appeared to have no bosom at all—however artfully disguised under the magnificent lace at her décolletage tonight. Probably not much of a bottom either—not like Selina's plump, ripe—

Where was Selina, anyway? He rolled onto one arm, listening. No, that was Bordon, next door, settling down for the night. The blackguard had twenty pounds of _his_ money. But Selina still had not come upstairs. He must not think about her too particularly, or he would merely make himself uncomfortable waiting. Back to the money—that is—back to Miss Jane Rutledge and her extraordinary proposition.

Twenty _bloody_ thousand pounds. An heiress willing to leave all behind. None of the embarrassment that had met him in similar applications back home in England to confront him here. He was the nephew of the Earl of Colchester. He imagined that would suffice in South Carolina. These colonials would know nothing of the scandalous career of Sir John Tavington—the title would be enough to have them groveling. He could only hope the father did not press him too closely about his own finances, which were, regrettably, fairly meager.

Very meager. His pay, a few family heirlooms, and no more. His elder brother, now Sir John in his turn, had inherited Wargrave Hall, their dilapidated family estate, but seemed to realize little income from it. His inheritance too, had been spent before their father died: gone to the card tables, gone to the whores, gone to the horses—gone forever

Mamma had the small remnants of her own fortune and the house in Mortimer Square. His sisters had their money, still safely held in trust, and that money was in fact what kept the house running, paid the servants, and put food on the table. Tavington had no land, no estate, no house of his own. He had no expectations from his uncle, whose fortune was moderate—for an Earl—and would go entirely to his own children.

Tavington grimaced, thinking of his weed of a cousin, Lord Sattersby. Nasty little sod. One of the great consolations of his wretched years at Eton was the periodic opportunity to beat the spoiled brat bloody on the playing field. _Those were the days._

Twenty _bloody_ thousand pounds. It was such a _lot_ of money. The crown had given land grants at the end of the last war, but he did not want to be shunted off to some backwater. He wanted to go home to England and see his family. He wanted to savor the pleasures of civilization once more. It had been such a _long_ war, and the rewards were always so far in the future. He could live well, very well, on the income from twenty thousand pounds.

Briefly and unpleasantly, it occurred to him that his mother might not be at all impressed by a colonial bride, but—

_Wait! There she is._ Tavington rolled onto his back, smiling up at the bed canopy of scarlet damask. The Rutledges, man and wife, were coming down the hall. Tavington listened, wondering if Rutledge would go directly to his dressing room, where Selina said he slept most of the time. They would have to be quiet. The daughter was only separated by Bordon's room, and the governess was across from her.

The waiting lengthened, as did the manifestation of his impatience. What the devil was the woman at? At least a quarter of an hour passed, before a door shut softly down the hall. Barely audible footsteps padded to his door, which opened slowly.

She was there, smiling at him. Her greedy gaze swept over him, and slowly she slid out of her delicate white shift. Shoulders, arms, breasts, belly—_ah yes. _Lovely legs, too. The candlelight caressed her with flickering tongues of shadow.

Tavington refused to be the supplicant. He lay back, arms behind his head, and grunted, "You kept me waiting long enough, Madam."

Selina giggled, and leaned forward to tease him with the brush of a fingertip in his most sensitive spot. "Yes, _quite_ long enough." She licked her lips, and climbed onto the bed, kneeling astride his legs. Her fingertips traced up, and then down, and explored freely. A fingernail scratched a nipple lightly, and she bent to soothe it with a flick of her tongue. Another touch found a crystal drop of moisture trembling at the tip of hardened flesh, and spread it delicately, in lazy little spirals.

"You little wanton," Tavington growled. "Who could imagine a lady knowing such tricks?" A good line, he reflected, even though quite untrue. In his experience frustrated wives were more adventurous and eager than paid harlots. The idea of wickedness excited them, as it had excited this lovely young woman, who had begun to rub herself on him, readying herself before she would mount him directly. To punish her, he kept his arms folded impassively, demanding her services.

A wriggle forward, and the tantalizing first contact as she positioned herself. He bit back a groan. The girl was more than ready, it seemed: flowing like the Thames in spate, and there was a slight, characteristic scent--- "It seems, my sweet, that I am not the first to enjoy your favors tonight."

She tossed her head defiantly. It made the rest of her quiver quite enticingly. "Yes. Ashbury wanted his rights. But he was on, and in, and done in moments." She began to settle onto him, agonizingly slowly, inch by inch. "And there I was, primed for pleasure, and there he lay snoring. And I thought—" she caught her breath and slid lower still, "that tonight I shall have a beautiful man, and have my fill—" she thrust down, impaling herself completely. "—of him."

Tavington hissed gratefully, and shut his eyes in rapture as she began to buck against him.

-----

The candle was guttering in the breeze from the open window. Tavington stared at it in fascination, utterly relaxed and comfortable. Selina cuddled against his side, tickling him with her long curls.

"Stop it," he smiled sleepily, batting at her hand. His watch was on the table by the bed, but Selina was in the way. It must be nearly four in the morning. He had been up and about for nearly twenty-four hours: an inspection, a meeting with Sir Henry, Selina, confronting Debenham over his debt of honor, the girl at the public house, the ball, dancing, flirting, a marriage proposal, losing at cards, Selina. _God._ He was going to have to get up soon and continue his efforts to prepare the regiment for its imminent mission into the countryside. For that, he needed at least a _few_ hours sleep.

Selina, however, was in the mood to chat. "I shouldn't have come," she giggled. "It would have served you right for not dancing with me. Why were you late?"

"Duty, my fair one." His eyes began to close.

"And why did you dance with Jane?"

His eyes opened, reluctantly.

Selina giggled again, but to Tavington's weary ears it sounded more like a cruel little cackle. "I thought I would burst with laughter when I saw her—painted and curled and decked out like a lapdog! I thought she had more pride. I know _I'd_ be ashamed to be seen looking so ridiculous."

"I thought she looked nice enough." _Sleep, yes, sleep…_

Selina sat up, indignant and naked, and punched his arm. "What do you mean—_nice_?"

_Ouch._

"I mean she looked _nice._ She's no beauty, I grant you, but tonight she looked quite ladylike."

_Let me sleep, woman, for God's sake._

Selina narrowed her eyes suspiciously. Then, satisfied that he was no admirer of her stepdaughter, she began a carping recital.

"Ladylike? Stiff as a cornhusk doll, you mean! She shouldn't even bother with balls at all. Spinsters just bring down the tone of a party. And she'll never get another man, now that Ralph Manigault is dead."

Tavington gave a tired groan, which Selina considered to be encouragement.

Selina propped herself up on her elbows, willing to gossip. "Oh yes—Ashbury arranged it. Ralph was a cousin of ours, and he looked just like Jane—imagine!" Another cackle, which echoed through Tavington's skull like the rasp of a sharpening wheel. "Both of them as scrawny and plain as a pair of wild rabbits. They liked each other well enough, I suppose: they were always reading _improving_ books together, and Ralph would turn her pages when she played the spinet."

She was staring at him, and would not leave him alone until he responded. "She was engaged?" he managed to mumble.

"Oh!" cried Selina, full of glee at recounting such a thrilling tale. "It was just before the war, when Jane was eighteen. He was coming back from England—he'd been studying at Oxford. They were going to married as soon as he returned. Jane has stacks of letters he sent her, all tied with little pink ribbons as faded as she is! The dullest things in the world. I had a look at them one day, when Jane was out." She giggled again, and then prepared him for the climax of the story. "And his ship sank and everyone was lost, and his body was never found, and Jane was heartbroken." She tossed her head, and repeated, "And she'll never get another man. With the war, half the eligible men are hiding out with the rebels, and the rest are fighting for the King. And Ashbury doesn't have time to arrange another match for her. She's very useful around the house, at least."

Bone-weary, and already sated with her, Tavington began to feel a curdling dislike for the talkative female in his bed. She was not letting him sleep, and she was exposing with every word her shallow, spiteful nature. If he had been less tired, he might still have wanted to enjoy her favors, but disgust seized him. The gross indelicacy of leaving her husband's bed to enjoy a lover became clearer as she continued to lie beside him, annoying him with her idle chatter. He might have rolled over and gone to sleep, but he was faintly interested in hearing more about the wealthy and willing Miss Jane.

He considered what she had said. "Yes, useful about the house. I noticed that she carries the keys. Does that offend you?"

Selina put her hand over her mouth to smother a laugh. "What a joke! When I first came here, I got the keys of course. It was my right. But once I had them, people were always expecting me to do things, and get things, and it was such a bother I gave them back to Jane. She has nothing better to do. And she _is_ very good natured with my little boy." That last was tacked on with an air of generosity.

Tavington was slightly surprised.

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Rutledge. I did not realize that you were a mother." The words were no sooner out of his mouth, than he realized they were untrue. Bordon has said there was a young son. Of course Selina was the mother. A son that had caused Jane Rutledge to be disinherited. If she was good-natured with the boy, she was good-natured indeed.

"Oh, yes. Ashbury has his heir. He always wanted a boy. Men don't feel they've really had children until they've had a son." She began tickling him again, obviously hoping for another tumble. Tavington, slightly sick with fatigue, decided to put a stop to this nonsense at once. He rolled to his side and reached over Selina to find his watch.

"Good God, look at the time! My dear, you must be getting back to your bed or you shall be discovered." Bitterly aggrieved at the necessity, he got out of bed, and gave her a hand to help her up. Pouting, she rose, and bent to retrieve her shift. She slipped it back on, and gave him a naughty smile. Tavington might have found it alluring had he been less irritated with her for keeping him awake.

When she seemed inclined to linger, he observed, "The slaves will be stirring soon."

Selina smirked. "They know better than to spy on me. If they did, I'd have the hide whipped off their backs." She leaned in for a soft, moist kiss.

Tavington was a soldier and no stranger to flogging, but that was men's business; and somehow, hearing a lady speak so casually of torturing her servants made him queasy. He forced a smile, and when she tried for another kiss, he touched a finger to her lips, saying, "But if you did, my dear, _people would want to know why_."

She shrugged. Tavington peered out the door to see if the hall was empty. It was. He gave her a nod, and she slipped from the room, gliding along the walls to her own. He shut the door noiselessly, and stumbled to the bed, blowing out the candle as if it had personally offended him. He crawled under the covers, grateful for the solitary comfort, seeking the relief of slumber. A brief picture of Jane Rutledge, adorned for the ball, flashed through his mind's eye. She did indeed look very ladylike. A similar image of Selina, naked and reeking of another man followed. _What a harlot. Perhaps looks aren't everything._

With stern determination, he put such thoughts from his mind. _Sleep first. I'll deal with all these women in the morning._

* * *

Note: Mortimer Square in London is fictional, and based on Berkeley Square in the Mayfair section of town. 

Next---**Chapter 5: A Proposal in Form**


	5. A Proposal in Form

_Disclaimer: Don't own it. Don't sue._**  
**

**Chapter 5: A Proposal in Form**

Jane awoke with a start. Wildly, she looked around her familiar white room. The bright late-morning sun reflected off the white walls and white draperies. A second sun blazed from the mirror above her dressing table. The resulting brilliance made Jane squeeze her watering eyes shut. Then she remembered the ball, the dancing, and then—the impulsive proposal made to Colonel Tavington.

"Oh, no!" 

How could she have done something so stupid? He must still be laughing. Worse, he must still be laughing with all his officers. That horrid Mr. Fenton would snigger behind his hands. The whispering—the smirking—the gossip—the scandal! Jane clutched fistfuls of mousy brown hair, still slightly curly from the night before.

"I never want to go to a ball again!"

Letty came in and heard her. She was smiling. Jane was relieved at the sight, for if the gossip were going the rounds, Letty would have looked concerned.

"What's wrong, Miss Jane? I'd have thought you'd be in good spirits today. Lots of people thought you looked nice last night. Old Miss Mary Manigault's maid told me that Old Miss and Miss Caroline said they'd never seen you look so fine—talked about you being a 'late bloomer.'" She came over to inspect the remains of Jane's curls. "They're holding up pretty well. From now on, we'll do them up every night. Men like curls."

"I _hate_ men," Jane declared frantically. "A pox on them."

Letty began sorting through the clothes press. "No call to say you hate men, honey. Some of them danced with you last night, after all."

"They're the worst," Jane insisted. "Men who dance with you and get you to say ridiculous things." She gasped, recollecting it all. "Oh, Letty, I've been so _stupid!"_ Her voice broke, and she hid her face in her hands.

In a moment, Letty was sitting on the bed, her arms around her. She asked in a low voice, "What happened? Did one of those men take liberties?—"

Jane shook her head in despair. "No. _I_ took liberties, I suppose. I asked a man to marry me."

"Miss Jane!" 

"Yes. I really did. It's too awful." She wiped her nose. "Maybe he won't remember this morning. Maybe he got drunk last night and he's lying in a ditch somewhere in utter oblivion. Oh, what'll I do? What'll I do?" She jumped out of bed, tripping on the rumpled sheets, and ran back and forth in distraction. "I know!" she cried. "I'll pretend it was all a joke! I'll pretend I never said it! I'll pretend to be ill and not leave my room until he's gone."

"Was it one of—those _redcoats?"_

Jane buried her face in her hands again.

Letty took a deep breath. "I thought you had better sense, honey. Those fly-by-nights we got staying here are _no good._ I know for a fact that—" Letty stopped, unsure what she could say. Miss Selina's maid Phyllis had threatened Daisy the laundrymaid with worse than a whipping if it got out, but all the house slaves knew that Miss Selina had been deceiving the Master with that good-looking British Colonel. The two of them had made a fool of him right in his own house, in his own bed. Daisy had seen the sheets and knew what was what. It was a terrible situation for them all. If they so much as looked wrong at Miss Selina, she would sell them away from Cedar Hill and they'd never see their families again. On the other hand, if the Master got wind that they were keeping the secret of Miss Selina playing him false, he would be within his rights to hang them all.

Letty gave thanks, as she did every night, that she and her mother belonged to Miss Jane, who would never, never sell them—and who certainly wouldn't get rid of them to please Miss Selina. It was a fragile defense, but it was all she had. She had on many occasions used it against gentlemen visitors who tried to force themselves on her. They knew that the Master would not care what use they made of her, but the threat of telling Miss Jane had mostly kept them away. That, and trying not to be seen by them. It had become even more dangerous with the officers in the house, but she could time her errands with prudence, and keep to the sewing room, Miss Jane's room, and the little closet adjoining that held her small bed and clothes box.

And now Miss Jane had gotten into some sort of fix with one of the unwelcome visitors. Yes—they were unwelcome. For all the Master talked of being loyal, and for all his caution in never signing any of the rebel papers, he did not like having them in his own house. If he knew the truth, there would be trouble. Bad trouble.

She tried to be encouraging. "Oh, he'll know it was a joke, honey. Just some harmless flirting."

Jane gulped. "I hope so. I really do." In the cruel light of day, all her exciting plans for taking Selina's lover away from her, for taking herself away from the daily miseries of Cedar Hill—they all looked terribly hare-brained. The man didn't like her—he didn't care about her at all. _If only I hadn't mentioned the money!_

_-------_

The money. It always, always, came down to the money.

Tavington tossed the dregs of his tea into the fire. The hiss satisfied him somehow. He had had a busy morning among the stables, talking to the grooms, looking over the mounts. He had pronounced them fit for the venture upcountry not an hour before. The day after tomorrow, he would lead his men up the river to hunt down the remains of the rebels.

He had awakened this morning with a slight headache, and a growing feeling that he had a major decision before him. The girl had seemed to be in earnest last night. She fancied him, and she would bring with her a fortune that would change his life beyond recognition.

She was a nice enough girl, if a little sharp-tongued. Bordon went on about her accomplishments, and they were, in fact, adequate. _She'll likely prove an unimaginatively faithful wife and a very good mother. I could do worse._

He snorted. _Can I realistically do better? That's the question._ _Who else is going to have twenty thousand pounds? I've been a fool in my time, but I'm not that great a fool._

He stood aside, while the young grooms led out a string of good horses, specially chosen for the officers of his regiment. He watched them appreciatively, noting the two he had designated for his own spare mounts. Big, handsome beasts. The sounds of the clopping, snuffling horses, the shouts of the grooms, the thousand camp noises barely penetrated his concentration. If he were going to move on this, he must do so immediately.

_I shall have to live with her until one of us dies._

Easier for him than for her. He had his employment. An officer always had a thousand excuses to be absent from home. The world was full of beautiful women if he needed better sport than his wife. _My wife._ _That simply sounds odd._

_Twenty thousand pounds._ He would not be cruel to her—that would be ungentlemanly, and damned foolish besides. He would treat her with the courtesy due a lady—the courtesy due to Mrs. Tavington. She would be raising his children, and it would be impolitic to cause her to raise them to hate him. No. It would be a marriage of convenience, but not necessarily an unpleasant one. Among other things, she played very nicely on her spinet. He would enjoy that.

He had no desire to marry for _love_, anyway. After all, he had seen the consequences of a _love_ match with his own eyes. His mother and father had been famously in love. They had been the talk of London. The marriage of Sir John Tavington and Lady Cecily Mortimer had been touted at the time as the most romantic of pairings—a couple whose physical beauty and high birth promised to be stuff of fairy-tales.

Well, he had not, obviously, been there for the wedding, but he had seen the fairy tale match for himself some years later: the spite, the screams, the foul, drunken epithets his father spewed at his mother; the bile she spewed right back. "Mad Jack," indeed. The romance had turned ugly: his father had died raving, rotting with the pox; while his mother had sat grimly at his deathbed, counting the minutes until she would be a widow and free of the man she considered her mortal enemy.

And so, a prudential alliance with a respectable young lady might be the answer to a host of problems. Just as he strove to be as little like his father as possible, so his marriage would be nothing like his parents'. The lack of passion could be a blessing in disguise. Passionate love turned all too easily to passionate hate. Instead, his union would be a practical, sensible one, based on mutual advantage…

All in all, the more he considered it, the more he thought Miss Jane Rutledge just the perfect bride for him.

---

When he was not in residence in Charlestown, Ashbury Rutledge liked to hold court in his study in the late morning. It had always been the time he preferred to do business, taking the reports of his overseer, seeing to his correspondence, and admitting the occasional suppliant to an audience in his _sanctum sanctorum_. Even now, as he convalesced, it was a place that made him feel secure in a very insecure world.

His butler, Davus, announced that Colonel Tavington wished to speak to him in private. Rutledge scowled. The man was a vexation, but only a temporary one. He and his fellow bullyboys in red would be departing the day after tomorrow to plague decent people elsewhere. Rutledge knew he was walking a fine line, and the presence of these unwelcome visitors had tested him to his limits.

His Pinckney cousins, Selina's uncles, had written angrily to him, denouncing his lack of loyalty to South Carolina. He had replied, through discreet channels, in such a way as to make his views clear. He cared neither for King nor for Continental Congress. What he cared for was that that things remained the way they had been in South Carolina all the days of his life. That meant, he explained, that their intertwined families--the great web of Rutledges and Pinckneys, of Draytons and Middletons, of Balls and Manigaults and Laurenses and Rhetts—should remain the rulers of South Carolina, no matter who the titulary head might claim to be. Their tight little circle had ordered things in South Carolina since the earliest days when their great-grandfathers arrived from Barbados with their slaves. As it was in the beginning, so it was and ever should be, world without end.

Thus, he explained, he thought it prudent to bide his time among their British "friends." He could assume control of the Pinckney holdings, protecting them from confiscation, and in the future, if the tide turned, his Pinckney cousins could vouch for him and do him similar services. Whether the King won or lost, the ruling families of South Carolina would remain on top of the heap where they belonged.

In practical terms, this assumed loyalty to the British had both advantages and disadvantages. He was free to conduct business, to pursue his mercantile interests, to make arrangements for the sale of his profitable indigo crop. Secretly he damned the invaders for the financial losses from the sequestration of the rice. It would hurt, but it would not break him.

On the other hand, he had to maintain pleasant relations with military men. Rutledge despised soldiers—of any army. A soldier was a brute incapable of the finesse of high finance—a destroyer, not a creator. With the exception of the highest among them, soldiers came from the lesser gentry of the United Kingdom—younger sons seeking their fortunes, wastrels, and unwanted bastards of careless gentlemen. He must now entertain them at his table, and suffer the sight of Colonel William Tavington flirting with his darling Selina night after night.

Selina was a treasure. She had the man eating out of her hand. He had always known she would prove a worthy partner. From the time she was an exquisite little girl, orphaned and staying with her uncles, he had had his eye on her. Despite all his efforts, Jane could not be made to befriend her, but he had had his way in the end. He could have married half a dozen times since Clarissa's death, but first he had had some wild oats to sow, and then there was Selina, gold and ivory, like a piece of jeweler's work. He had been patient, and waited until the child ripened into a beautiful woman, and then had taken her for his own. His faint, tender smile faded somewhat as Tavington entered the room.

"Welcome, Colonel. Seat yourself---no, there. It is much more comfortable. How may I serve you?" The tones were better than civil—they were warm, manly, and affable. Rutledge congratulated himself on striking the right tone, for Tavington's lips twitched in an answering, if somewhat uneasy smile. He sat, and Rutledge, now that he had the man seated in the full glare of the sun, could analyze him at his leisure.

He was somewhat--uncomfortable. Rutledge had found Tavington arrogant and condescending, but he had held his peace. Now, however, the man seemed to find himself at a disadvantage. While pleasant in itself, this could be the harbinger of misfortune. Plainly, the man had bad news, or wanted something disagreeable, or was hiding something. Rutledge did not let his personable mask slip, and ordered Davus to bring them tea.

"Or something stronger, sir?"

"No—I thank you. Tea would be perfect."

A silence. Rutledge, still smiling slightly, kept his eye on Tavington, waiting for the man's move. Then—

"Mr. Rutledge, I am not unaware that our stay with you has strained the normal limits of hospitality—"

Rutledge scoffed amiably. "I am aware as you sir, that we are at war."

"Nonetheless—or indeed _because_ of the war, sometimes people are thrown together in unexpected circumstances." He paused, and Rutledge waited, wondering what the man could be talking about. He wanted something, but _what?_

"Both I and my officers are extremely conscious of your generosity to us. Your household has offered us a most refreshing respite from the war. We shall all regret our departure."

Knowing this for an opening gambit, Rutledge merely nodded.

Tavington looked slightly strained under the appearance of hauteur. "Yes. These few days have been particularly pleasant to me, because they have afforded me the opportunity of making your daughter's acquaintance."

Rutledge faltered a moment. Pasting the smile on more forcefully, he scrambled for comprehension. The man was speaking of _Jane!_ Of all possibilities, the one unlooked-for! Feeling he had every reason to look suspicious, he allowed his eyes to narrow and to study the man before him in an entirely new light.

Tavington, for his part, was trying not to sweat. The man was civil enough, but now looked decidedly less friendly with the turn the conversation had taken. He had not thought the man fond of his daughter, but any gentleman would care about the honor of his house. _Perhaps this was a good idea, if only to draw suspicion from his wife. She should be properly grateful when I tell her._

Rutledge tilted his head back, and looked down his nose. He shut his lips tightly, resolutely silent, forcing Tavington to speak.

"You cannot be blind to your daughter's many merits: an accomplished lady—her performance on her instrument is exquisite--a diligent housekeeper; her manners refined; her conversation cultivated and most individual. Her loyalty to her family, and the tenderness she shows her young brother have convinced me that she is the woman most likely to provide me the domestic happiness for which I had always hoped. In short, sir," he went on smoothly, desperately trying to remember all the speech he had prepared for this occasion, "I ask the honor of your daughter's hand in marriage."

Davus entered quietly with the tea. Rutledge barked, "Take that slop away and fetch us some brandy!" The slave backed out of the room hastily. Rutledge stared at the man before him. Tavington already very hot in the harsh sunlight, felt the hostility in the room become palpable.

The silence stretched out painfully. The faint sounds of the rest of the household vibrated through the study walls: footsteps on the staircase, whispered conversations outside the door, a light tread above them. Outside were the usual distant shouts and calls from the fields and outbuildings. Motes of dust danced in the light slanting through the stiff yellow curtains. Tavington watched them in tense fascination, waiting for his prospective father-in-law's reply.

Rutledge looked hard at Tavington, who turned his glance aside, not wishing to engage in a staring contest. Just as well. Davus returned, looking very subdued, and poured them each a glass of brandy, bringing them forward on a silver tray. Tavington took his, with a nod to his host. Rutledge picked his up slowly, resisting the urge to dash it in Tavington's arrogant face, and then growled at the slave.

"Get out."

He took a long swallow, and then considered the man before him. Tavington was sipping at the fiery liquor, plainly appreciating the quality, and pretending they were having a friendly conversation. Despite all his dislike of the man, Rutledge knew he must maintain the same pretence as well.

The shock was considerable. He had long since despaired of Jane having any commercial value to him as bride material. She had always been a keen disappointment, from the day she had been born female and had killed her mother in the process. She had grown up plain, with the most unattractive ways he had ever seen in a child: quiet, bookish, inquisitive to a fault. Not like his lovely Selina, he mused, letting a faint smile stay across his lips. No, Jane had been a failure as a daughter. He had had some hopes of her making a useful marriage, when the Manigaults wanted to merge their shipping interests with his indigo production. An alliance was arranged, and the Manigaults were even willing to let Jane choose which cousin to wed. She had been properly obedient, and had even seemed to like young Ralph. She had certainly made a spectacle of herself about his death. But no one else had come forward, with all the chaos since the war began. Even with Jane's large fortune, she was not what a proper man fancied. And so, what was Tavington's motive? He considered what he knew about the man, and dredged up long-forgotten gossip about the family from his memory.

Jane's twenty thousand pounds, of course. The man was a fortune-hunter, pure and simple. Now feeling he understood the situation perfectly, Rutledge thought himself able to control it. The question was, was this a marriage that could benefit Ashbury Rutledge? He had no particular affection his daughter, and had little interest in her welfare, but a very great interest in his own prospects. He was keeping his lines of communication open with his Patriot relations. A certain balance could be struck, at least in the short term, which could be to his advantage…

"I am surprised, Colonel Tavington. I had seen no sign of understanding between you and my daughter."

"Your daughter is a very modest young lady, sir. It was only last night at the ball that we had an opportunity to make our feelings known to one another."

"I see." With the noncommittal answer, there was another silence.

"My daughter has a very large fortune—twenty thousand pounds. Were you aware of this fact?"

Tavington smiled briefly, and he thought unconvincingly. It would be stupid to lie. "Your daughter has many attractions. I was aware that she was also well-dowered."

"What are your plans after the war?"

"I shall, of course, first go home and see my family in England. My uncle, the Earl of Colchester--"

"Ah, yes, your family…You are the younger son, I believe. You do not have a home or any property of your own at present?"

Tavington's slight smile could not sustain this. This colonial was not, apparently, impressed by his noble relations. "No, I do not."

"And what jointure are you prepared to settle on my daughter in the event of your death?"

"I am certain that suitable arrangements can be made."

Rutledge was blunt. "You have no fortune of your own, I would conclude."

"After the last war, the King gave out sizable land grants. I have every reason to expect some such reward. And I am well-paid as a colonel."

"But the Tavington money, I believe, was dissipated in your father's lifetime. Don't look so startled, Colonel. The story is very well-known."

Tavington's smile was cold now. Mad Jack's soiled reputation had dogged his footsteps, even here. "I had not thought it to have traveled all the way to the Colonies."

Rutledge smiled back, equally cold. "It did not need to. You forget, Colonel, that we are _Englishmen_, after all. I was at school at Harrow when the story of the Bagley House scandal was on everyone's tongue. And I was at Caius College, Cambridge, when the affair of the Duke's private club was published." He smiled again, letting the man know that he could keep nothing from Ashbury Rutledge.

Tavington was silenced for a moment, and then smirked back at the presumptuous Colonial taunting him. _You may think yourself very clever, Rutledge, but I'm the one who had your wife in your own bed. Perhaps someday I'll share that bit of news with you._ Instead, he raised a brow, and merely said, "How convenient that we understand one another so well. No intrigue, no disguise. I do indeed wish to marry your daughter. What say you?"

Rutledge sat back in his comfortable leather wing chair, feeling agreeably in command. "My daughter's well-being is of paramount importance, of course."

"Of course."

"If you are indeed her choice, I would not stand in the way of her happiness." Before Tavington could reply, he raised a hand. "I would expect the consideration due me for such a manifest act of loyalty to the King's cause. Many men would fear to ally themselves so publicly."

"Indeed."

"Perhaps in the future we can consult with Sir Henry Clinton about releasing my rice stored in Charlestown."

"It _is_ possible that Sir Henry might make exceptions for such loyalty."

"Of course, I cannot commit myself until more certain of this very proper _quid pro quo_. Therefore," he said, with an air of benevolence, "I grant you permission to _court_ my daughter. If in the future, arrangements can be made…"

Tavington sneered. "I understand you perfectly. I will be leaving the day after tomorrow. That will, unfortunately, leave precious little time for _courting."_

Rutledge spread his hands in helpless sympathy. "You will find my daughter a most dutiful correspondent." He rose. "I have found our conversation of great interest, Colonel, but now I must bid you farewell. I have another appointment that cannot be put off."

Stiffly, Tavington rose and bowed. Striding from the room, he resolved on having the man's wife again—and _thoroughly_--before he shook the dust of Cedar Hill Plantation from his feet.

Rutledge watched Tavington leave, feeling more than the usual envy and dislike for the man's vigorous health, straight back and military bearing. He rang the bell for Davus.

"Send my daughter to me."

-----

Jane came downstairs at once, wondering if her father wanted to consult about the menu for dinner. She entered the study briskly, and paused at the grim look directed at her.

"Sit," her father ordered, directing her toward the chair facing his desk. Jane blinked a little, trying to avoid the full sun in her eyes. Her father was silhouetted against it, a large dark figure enthroned in his great chair.

Her father did not wait for her to speak, but immediately launched into an inquisition.

"Have you been carrying on a flirtation with Colonel Tavington behind my back?"

Her heart sinking, Jane whispered, "No."

"No? You astonish me. Not ten minutes ago, Colonel Tavington sat in that very chair, assuring me that he had gained your affections."

Jane stared at him, her eyes huge, her lips bloodless.

Her father appraised her coldly. "Have your been meeting with him in secret? Have you allowed him liberties?"

"No, Papa! How can you think?---" she stopped, horrified at his conclusions.

"What am I to think? A man—a stranger of less than a fortnight's acquaintance—comes to me demanding my daughter's hand. What can I think but that there has been some gross impropriety? Are you saying he's a liar?"

"No, Papa! It was at the ball---we talked---" She tried to collect her whirling thoughts. "I had no idea he would be so precipitous…"

"He's a _soldier,_ Jane," Rutledge observed with contempt. "He hasn't much time."

Jane swallowed and tried to breathe slowly.

Rutledge said, "I am disposed to grant his suit—"

Jane looked up in fright.

"—in part."

Not at all comforted by either his words or his tone, Jane waited in suspense to hear her father out.

Considering his words, Rutledge declared, "This could be of some use to me, Jane. This suitor of yours has no fortune of his own, but he has influence, and of course, his rank. I cannot in conscience permit you to bind yourself to him on such short acquaintance, but I have permitted him the privilege of courting you."

Jane suppressed a groan.

Her father, surveying her dispassionately, continued. "Colonel Tavington will be leaving the day after tomorrow. I suggest you spend the time with him wisely. Miss Gilpin will chaperone all of your encounters, but I expect you to make yourself as pleasant as your virtue permits. Do something with yourself, for God's sake!" His voice softened, became patronizing. "You looked quite acceptable last night. Your dress, your whole appearance was much improved."

Jane murmured a few words, in which "Letty" and "Mademoiselle Renaud's" were distinguishable.

"Yes, Letty. She's a good girl, Letty, and quite an accomplished lady's maid. You do well to let her have her way. Have her fix your hair and face the way she did before, and put something on that doesn't make you look like one of the house slaves." He caught her eye, demanding a response.

"Yes, Papa," she answered dutifully.

"After Colonel Tavington's departure, you will be permitted to correspond with him, as his betrothed."

"_Write_ to him! Papa, what would I say?"

"What does any woman say? Write the same rubbish you sent young Manigault!"

Stricken, Jane protested, "Papa, please! I don't feel about him as I did about Ralph. It is possible I have mistaken my feelings entirely—"

Her father rose up in rage from his desk, strode heavily over to her chair, and without warning, slapped her face.

"You'll feel the way I tell you to feel!" 

Too shocked to cry out, Jane put a hand to her burning cheek, and stared at her father. He had never actually struck her before.

Neither regretful nor appeased, he loomed over her, and growled, "I hope you are not going to be a willful, selfish, undutiful daughter--"

Jane looked down at the floor, trembling. "No, Papa!"

"—because I won't have it. You will obey me: you will make yourself agreeable to Colonel Tavington, you will make yourself as presentable as possible, and you will do it cheerfully."

"Yes, Papa!"

He smiled, satisfied at her submission. "Then go to it, Jane. Go out to the kitchens and make sure I have food fit to eat today. Then get up to your room and make yourself pretty for your _suitor_. Try to behave like Selina, for a change. Make her your model. You can't go far wrong there. Now get out."

Jane cast a quick, burning glance up at her father, tempted to spoil his fool's paradise in an instant. The words would not come. How could she describe the vile scene she had witnessed? And what good would it do, in the end? Biting back her anger, she stood, proudly straight, and left the room silently.

-----

**Note:** Thank you to my reviewers. If you would like to join their ranks, please submit a review. I am very interested in feedback, and I_ will_ respond.

Next--**Chapter 6: Secrets, Lies, and Appalling Ill-Breeding **


	6. Secrets, Lies and Appalling Ill Breeding

_Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't sue._

**Chapter 6: Secrets, Lies, and Appalling Ill-Breeding**

Life, Tavington reasoned, was a puzzle box of punishments and rewards. Early on, he had decided that since others were so quick to deal out punishments, he would grasp all the rewards possible himself. Whenever a day had gone badly—a whipping at school, a preferment lost, a good soldier killed, a snub from a superior--he could even the score in all sorts of ways. And so, Tavington ascended the staircase at Cedar Hill with a sense of entitlement, finding the door he wanted without caring much if he were noticed or not.

"Colonel!" Selina cried. She was at her toilette, her sly-looking maid Phyllis combing out the long golden hair.

Tavington pushed the maid aside and snarled, "Out!" at her.

Phyllis threw a look of appeal at her mistress, who shooed her away.

"Go to the sewing room, Phyllis! Now!"

Tavington did not bother to see if the maid was gone: he did not bother to see that the door was shut. With a single hand he unbuttoned his breeches, and then swept the pretty, carnal Selina Rutledge up in his arms, the lace of her dressing gown drifting about them like clouds. She giggled and wrapped her legs about him, uttering a tiny squeal as he settled her down on him and pressed her against the silk-covered wall of her bedchamber.

Intent on his pleasure, he slammed into her, heedless of the thumping as her back hit the wall. Hard and deep, fierce and urgent, he grasped her closer as he pumped faster. The smell of patchouli and jasmine flowers, of powder and pomade, of sex mingled in the air. Selina wriggled around him deliciously, and cooed her own satisfaction, her warm breath tickling his ear. It seemed only a moment before she was whimpering with delight. He finished with a few brutal thrusts, and released her. Selina slid down the wall to collapse on the floor, her skirts hiked up to her belly, her knees falling apart with careless ease. She smiled up at him, a lazy, wicked smile that would not, he thought, have been out of place on the face of a Bristol doxy.

He looked down at Selina, allowing all his anger with her husband to spill over into contempt for her. "I must go," he told her with a bare pretence of regret. "My business with Mr. Rutledge is concluded, and I must return to my duties. Until tonight, Madam," Without further ceremony, he wiped and buttoned himself, and left the room, a bewildered Selina left dripping on the floor.

Bordon would be the man to talk to, Tavington decided, forgetting Selina as soon as the house was behind him. The whole peculiar affair troubled him: the anxious spinster openly soliciting his hand; the calculating father demanding favors. He needed to sort the matter out, and Bordon's objective intelligence was what he needed.

----

"An interesting trade-off, certainly," agreed Bordon, his pleasant face thoughtful. "The man wants to be able to profit from his rice, and in the meantime, you are permitted to court his daughter from a distance. Did he explicitly say that he would permit the marriage?"

"No."

"I wonder…" Bordon looked up at the sky, considering the matter. "I wonder if he means to allow you to marry her at all."

----

"You cannot allow him to marry her!" Selina's outraged cry could be heard all the way to the back door. Two little slave boys, whose duty it was to carry messages from house to outbuildings, looked at each other and sidled a little way down the hall, hoping to pick up exciting gossip. To their disappointment, the voices in the study quieted immediately. They whiled away the rest of the lazy morning, speculating about who was getting married.

Ashbury Rutledge chuckled at his pretty wife's spirited display. "Now, now, my dear," he soothed, indulging her a moment's wonder. "I've thought it all through. Don't worry about a thing."

"Why would he want to marry her? She's so---I'm sorry, dearest, but you know she's not at all the sort of girl—Well, I just don't see it! Except," she paused, and her eyes gleamed with malice, "For her fortune."

"Of course, Selina," her husband agreed. "The man is after her twenty thousand pounds. He's a fortune hunter. All he wants is the money. However," he declared with a grim smile, "Twenty thousand pounds is not a sum I'd care to see leave the family."

Selina sighed with relief. "Then you won't permit it."

Rutledge chuckled again, pleased with his subtlety. "It's a delicate matter, my dear. Times being what they are, it wouldn't do to forbid the match outright. I've got a near promise from Tavington to put in a word with Sir Henry about my rice. Made it a condition, in fact. We'll see what his influence is worth."

"I've heard that Sir Henry likes him."

"All the better. I never thought that Jane would prove useful, but if she can save the rice crop, I'll be well pleased with her. And then, of course, the Colonel is heading north. I fobbed him off with promises of a courtship, and I told Jane she'll have to write to him, but there's a war out there, after all. Anything can happen. The man may be dead in a month—"

Selina shivered. Quite clearly, she pictured her handsome lover lying pale and dead in the wild backcountry. It hurt a great deal, for a brief moment. _It won't happen_, she told herself firmly, _Not to him_, and pushed the image away.

Her husband was still speaking. "—and even if he survives, I can have Jane jilt him once the rice is safely sold."

"But _will_ she?"

"She'll do as she's told. I gave Miss Jane a little talking-to this morning, and I think she'll comport herself as a daughter should."

Selina rose, and kissed her husband lightly on his bald spot. "You are so clever, my love. It would be terrible for poor Jane to fall into the hands of a fortune hunter. She's much better off staying here at home and helping with the housekeeping and with our boy. She has plenty to do. Some women just aren't meant for marriage anyway."

"True enough," Rutledge nodded. "And if she dies unmarried, there a good chance that her money would go to Little Ash. I'm sure, if she thought about it the right way, she'd see it was all for the best."

-----

Jane informed Miss Gilpin of her father's orders, and the peculiar situation regarding Colonel Tavington and herself. The older woman was dubious, but made an effort to consider it in the most positive light. Sitting on the bed while Letty worked on Jane's hair, she listed all the advantages of such a match.

"He _is_ a gentleman with good connections, Jane. A marriage with him will ally you with some of the best families in England. And he's a fine man in himself. His reputation for courage and hard work stands very high among his fellow officers."

Jane smiled wryly. "Such a pity I'm not a man. Then I could join his regiment. Those qualifications don't mean much in marriage."

"Yes, they do," Miss Gilpin countered stoutly. "They mean he's good for _something_. Bravery and hard work are real virtues and they translate well into domestic life. He's not a notorious gamester or drunkard; he's not a layabout; or even a fool. He's a man of some cultivation: he certainly is well read, even if his manner in company can be haughty and reserved. You'll be able to leave your father's house. You may even have the opportunity to travel. These are all very good things."

"Yes," agreed Jane, forcing a smile for the older lady's sake. She looked up at Letty, who was gravely intent on her coiffure, and gave her a little encouraging smile as well. Letty returned a level gaze. Jane gathered that Letty was unimpressed with her suitor. She added, "And he's handsome. Very handsome."

"I reckon handsome is as handsome does," Letty remarked in a low voice.

A little puzzled, Miss Gilpin nodded. "Very true, Letty dear. We shall see if Colonel Tavington is a good correspondent, and if he behaves in a way that shows him worthy of our Jane."

An unladylike snort startled them. Selina stood in the doorway, surveying them all with disdain. "Worthy of _her_. Like a thoroughbred stallion mated with a three-legged donkey."

"Now, then, ma'am," protested Miss Gilpin, "there's no need for that kind of talk—"

Selina pushed past her and loomed over Jane. She snatched a handful of hair away from Letty and gave it a sharp tug. Jane gasped, and started to struggle. Selina hissed, "You look ridiculous. You look like a poodle, but not so pretty!"

Jane tried to make Selina let go of her hair. "Stop it! What's got into you?" Selina grabbed her wrist instead and twisted it.

Angry in her turn, Jane hissed, "If you go on like this, people are likely to think you're jealous, Selina!"

Selina dug her nails into Jane's wrist for a painful instant. Jane cried out, and Selina abruptly released her with a sneer. "Jealous of _you_! What a joke! You know he's only after your money. He doesn't care a fig for you, and he never will! Nobody could!"

With that, she swept from the room, with a hateful little laugh.

Jane rubbed her wrist, and sat down heavily in the chair in front of the dressing table. Letty was silent, and picked up the hairpins that had been scattered over the floor by Selina's attack. Miss Gilpin took a deep breath, and sat on the bed again.

"I don't know about you, but I would prefer to pretend that that appalling display of ill-breeding never happened. If anything, my dear Jane, it should clearly indicate the need for a speedy departure from your father's house!"

-----

Tavington returned to Cedar Hill late in the afternoon, with Bordon and the rest of his command group. He dashed upstairs, wanting a wash and change of linen before dinner. Striding quickly down the hall, a few steps ahead of the others, he nearly ran into a young woman emerging from Jane Rutledge's room. He paused, and made a quick bow of apology. The young woman's startled expression caught his attention, and a split-second later, so did her looks.

Where had such a beauty been hiding? Tavington paused to admire the girl. Could she be another cousin he had not yet met? She was neatly, if plainly dressed, and her clothes fit her graceful figure perfectly. Huge dark eyes met his: wonderful eyes. There was a certain exotic cast to her features that he was quite taken with, and he smiled, wanting conversation with her. Behind him, Bordon looked on with raised eyebrows and a carefully pleasant demeanor.

At that moment, Miss Rutledge's door opened again, and the young lady was before them. "Letty, I forget to tell you that—" She stopped, seeing Tavington and his officers, and curtsied with a blush. "Gentlemen."

"Miss Rutledge."

Tavington tore himself from his contemplation of the unknown charmer to spare a glance at his future bride. She taken trouble with her hair and face again—all the good--and was wearing an attractive gown of pale yellow damask.

"Excuse me, gentlemen." She put out her arm, gesturing the other young woman back into her bedchamber with a curiously protective air. Tavington gave her a look, plainly expecting an introduction. The pretty young woman fixed her eyes on the floor, refusing to meet his gaze.

Jane puzzled briefly, wondering why Tavington wanted to know a slave's name. _If we marry, she'll be part of our household, so I suppose it's reasonable._

She touched Letty's shoulder, bringing her about to face the Colonel. "My maid, Letty," she told him; and then with another, "Excuse me," the two girls retreated into the room and shut the door.

As the other officers found their own quarters, Tavington turned to Bordon, an amused look on his face. They discreetly walked away from the doorway and Tavington murmured, "Well, well. A pity I had not the time to make _her_ acquaintance."

Bordon demurred. "Surely the beauteous Mrs. Rutledge is enough for you."

Tavington stiffened. "I have no idea what you mean."

"Sir, my room is _next door_ to yours." Bordon gave him a long-suffering look, and walked back to said room with a knowing smile.

-----

Dinner was a strange affair. Rutledge and his wife dominated the conversation. On the surface it was all affability, but Tavington sensed hostile undercurrents. Rutledge outwardly made much of Tavington's understanding with his daughter, but his hospitality was hearty to the point of menace. Selina was lively as ever, but brittle with it: she flirted openly with Tavington, her looks from under her long lashes a blatant invitation. She pressed his foot with hers under the table, which seemed to Tavington, considering the occasion, very bad taste.

It was hard to tell what his prospective bride thought. She was not seated by him, but across the table and near the middle, separated from him by two of his officers. She was silent—even downcast. Occasionally he saw her look up and flick a glance to Miss Gilpin, whom Tavington could not see. Certainly she was out of spirits. Tavington wondered if she had been ill-treated. Much here was a mystery to him. Perhaps Bordon's analysis was sound. Dangling the heiress before him in exchange for his influence with Sir Henry—yes, it could all be a trick. If so, the daughter's heart was not in it. Rather, he thought she had impulsively spoken her mind to him the night before, and now her father was using her for his own ends. He must try to speak to her alone, if her stepmother and her companion would permit it.

There was no opportunity at the dining table, certainly: the ladies left early, allowing Rutledge to call for more wine. Tavington studied the man. These Colonials claimed to be Englishmen in every way, but it was clearly untrue. Just as the plantation's self-sufficiency was an illusion, so too was the _Englishness_ of South Carolina. No Englishman's servants performed their duties in the dining table with the blank looks of dread that Tavington saw in the faces of the house slaves. An Englishman's tenants could not be sold at auction. The squalid rows of crumbling log slave cabins were a mockery of the cottages of free laborers surrounding an English mansion. The whipping post was not a fixture of an English country estate. Yes, there was flogging in the army, but a man could not be sentenced to it on an officer's whim. The ruling white elite of South Carolina was heavily outnumbered by their black slaves, and everything pointed to the fact that they lived in constant fear of another bloody slave revolt, like the Stono Rebellion years before. _Nothing like England,_ Tavington reflected: _more like ancient Rome._ _A few live lavishly from the servitude of the many_. _The rebels may claim to prize liberty, but they prize it, it seems, only for themselves.__  
_

Rutledge, manifestly, felt no shame in being a slaveholder. He was talking to Bordon even now about the pleasures a master could find among the slave women—even under his roof. Bordon replied tactfully with a compliment to the beauty of the women of South Carolina, whatever their station, and then Mr. Fenton, reliably, blundered.

"We saw another mighty pretty girl this afternoon, sir. Your daughter's maid is a peach."

Rutledge rumbled a laugh. Tavington tried to catch Fenton's eye, but caught Bordon's instead, with a look saying, _Shut him up._ Before Bordon could change the subject, Rutledge volunteered a few facts that surprised him.

"Oh--Letty, you mean? Yes, a mighty pretty girl. Good girl, too. Her mama is Biddy, who raised Jane. She's helping with my son, though she's past her prime these days. You'd never guess it to look at her now, but Biddy was good sport in her salad days. Fine looking wench-- her mother was a Cherokee captured in a raid, and her father was a mulatto raised in my uncle Charles' household who could read and write. Yes, sir," he smirked, "good sport." He helped himself to more wine.

Bordon tried to think of a polite reply to this. He finally said, "I did not realize that the girl was a slave."

"Of course she is," Rutledge affirmed. "Brought up under my own roof. Biddy and Letty are both Jane's own property. Biddy nursed both Jane and Letty after my first wife died. Might handy, that."

"I daresay," was Tavington's scathing response. He was rather taken aback at the man's crass admission. So the pretty maid was a slave—undoubtedly his own daughter. The nurse might well be his cousin. And the grandmother an Indian? Yes, he remembered now hearing that South Carolina had enslaved more of them than any other English colony. And to speak so of his own flesh and blood… An Englishmen might get any number of byblows, but he would hardly boast of keeping them enslaved. One was expected to educate and provide for such offspring, especially when it was perfectly obvious that the child was one's own. Tavington regarded his Colonial host with growing contempt.

The wine made Rutledge hospitable. "You gentlemen will be leaving soon. Be sure and amuse yourselves down at the slave cabins. It's what the wenches are for." He leered at Tavington, "As long a man doesn't flaunt it in a lady's face, he can do pretty much as he pleases."

"Speaking of the ladies—" Bordon broke in smoothly, conscious of his Colonel's stony silence—"isn't it time we joined them? I was hoping that Miss Rutledge would be persuaded to give us some music."

"Yes." Tavington rose. "An excellent notion." He strode away, impatient to be out of the room. The hall was less close, and did not reek of stale wine. From the drawing room—or parlor—as they called it, he could hear a spinet well-played. It was a pleasanter sound than Rutledge's fond reminiscences of raping his slave women. He had never had any difficulty finding willing bedmates himself: seduction, negotiation, conquest were nearly as pleasurable as the act of love itself. The submission of a slave, who dared not refuse him for fear of the whip, seemed poor sport indeed.

Selina, toying idly with her rings, saw him as he entered. She patted the place on the sofa beside her, but he nodded and passed on. Miss Gilpin fixed him with a gimlet eye, and he replied with a practiced, guiless smile. Tavington pulled up a chair at the spinet by Miss Rutledge, and had a look at her music.

She smelled rather nice. Lavender with a touch of lemon. It seemed appropriately virginal. The music was all Greek to him, but he said, "nod when you want the page turned."

"All right."

She played on. Tavington liked the piece. It was dramatic, and it brightened the candlelit room that was now filling with the other gentlemen. Tavington glanced briefly at Bordon, not needing to tell him in words to keep Rutledge occupied. As if by collusion, Miss Gilpin began a whispered conversation with Selina, effectively covering anything he might wish to say to her charge.

The girl gave a sharp nod. Tavington turned the page quickly and smoothly, the way his sister Lucy had taught him. Briefly, he was lost in the music, listening to a tune repeated high and low, chasing itself across the keyboard. He could tell when his prospective bride started looking at the right page after finishing with the left, and he could guess where on the page she was looking, but otherwise----

Another nod. Tavington turned the page, and took his opportunity to speak.

"Miss Rutledge, your father has given provisional consent to my suit—" The girl flinched slightly, and she struck a false note. She hissed through her teeth, and kept on playing. Tavington admired her nerve. "It seems that after tomorrow, I shall bid you farewell, and we shall be forced to become better acquainted by letters only."

"So he told me," the girl answered tersely. The thin lips thinned even more.

"I confess I was hoping for more. I was hoping for a positive engagement. Your father, however, has put a stumbling block in my way."

"The rice."

"Yes," he answered, surprised that she understood so much. "He is anxious that I exert myself to have it returned to his control. I doubt that it can be done swiftly enough for him to allow the banns to be read anytime soon." Even if the engagement were proclaimed in church this very Sunday, it would have to be announced two more Sundays in succession before the marriage could take place. And who knew where he would be in three weeks?

Jane was thinking rapidly. Tavington was so close that she could feel the warmth of his body. His heady scent, the smell of an active healthy man, drove her distracted, with a melting thrill that traveled all the way to her toes. "That's not the only way to legally marry." _Please, please, take me far away from here!_

"Really? It is possible to obtain special licenses in London, but they're quite expensive. Is there some such procedure here?"

Jane paused, impatient for him to get the page turned. With a grimace of apology, he did so, and then waited for her answer.

Her mind was awhirl with new possibilities. Her life had abruptly changed for the worse, with Papa and Selina now physically attacking her. She assessed the man seated at her side. _He can't be as bad as my father! _She whispered, "Not everyone has the banns read. There aren't enough parishes for the size of the colony. You can go to the county clerk and get a license. It doesn't cost much, I'm told, and it's much more convenient for the people who aren't Church of England."

"Really?" His voice rose a little, and she gave him a swift, sidelong glance. He murmured, "Really? Now that _is_ interesting." He watched her fingers fly over the keys. Her hands were not unattractive, though they were attached to knobby wrists that—

"Did someone hurt you, Miss Rutledge?" Discreetly, he took the opportunity to touch her frail left wrist, discolored by three little blue bruises. His fingertips trailed lightly over the marks.

The mobile, wide mouth turned down in a scowl. "It's nothing." She did not stop playing, nor did she seem offended at his touch. This was most encouraging.

Tavington took a breath, and decided to gamble on her dislike of her current situation. "It may be that your father's consent to my courtship is only a trick. He means to make use of me to regain his property, and then end our engagement."

She played on in silence, frowning ever more darkly. At another page turn, she finally said, "That is—possible. Papa doesn't really seem very pleased about it at all."

"You would know best. If you truly wish to escape, Miss Rutledge, perhaps we should steal a march on him."

"Turn back to the beginning," she ordered. "I'm going to play the repeat." _My last chance to get this right,_ she thought of the music, and then, chillingly, about her life. _This could be my last chance…_

He obliged her and turned the page, touching her once more as if by accident, and then he waited.

"What do you mean, 'steal a march?'" she asked, very softly.

"I am proposing, Miss Rutledge, that you and I take charge of our destinies. We can marry tomorrow. I shall obtain this license from the clerk, and find some official to marry us. Give some pretext to come to Charlestown in your carriage. By the evening, you will be no longer under your father's authority."

"He'll be so angry." She sounded a little frightened, and Tavington leaned toward her, using his most soothing, persuasive tones, not about to let this prize escape him. _This could be my last chance…_Twenty thousand pounds beckoned to him, the gleaming golden gates of his future.

"He cannot set aside a legal marriage."

"Turn two pages ahead now."

She launched into a difficult passage, and the music sounded like it was coming to a crashing end. She played two final, emphatic chords, and whispered, "I'll do it."

-----

**Note:** Some of you may complain that Rutledge is being ridiculously villainous in the dinner scene. I stand by it. Numerous travelers' accounts of the period tell of visitors to South Carolina from Britain, Europe, and the northern colonies being quite shocked by the frankness with which wealthy men spoke of slave concubinage. It was not sexual prudery, since the 18th century was quite plain-spoken in that regard: what shocked them was the blatant exploitation of the helpless women the men owned.

**Next—Chapter 7: The Worst Wedding**


	7. The Worst Wedding

_Disclaimer: I own neither the rights to the Patriot nor those to the Book of Common Prayer._

**Chapter 7: The Worst Wedding**

"I think it will rain, my dear," Miss Gilpin objected. The morning had dawned grey, and she thought Jane's fancy to go to Charlestown very rash.

Jane glanced out the window. Dark, lowering clouds gathered heavy in the north. A freshening breeze whipped through the branches of the magnolia near her window. She leaned out into the air, smelling the rich, tilled earth, and the faint tang portending thunderstorms.

_A bad omen,_ she thought to herself. _A Roman would turn back._

She was, however, not some ancient Roman, but a Carolina lady and a Christian. No superstitions would prevent her from driving to Charlestown today.

She withdrew from the window, and smiled cheerfully at her companion. "And what if it does? A short journey, and it's my only opportunity to purchase more finery before Colonel Tavington leaves us. A little rain will not hurt us."

"It may do your gown no good," Miss Gilpin retorted. She went down to breakfast, and Jane was alone, making her last preparations.

She had said nothing to her father. Selina, however, might wonder where she was. Gathering her courage, she walked down the hall and rapped on the door.

"What is it?"

"It's Jane, Selina. I'm going to Charlestown to visit the shops. Do you wish to come with me?"

"It's going to rain, you goose."

"I am to take that as a 'no,' then?"

An audible word of vexation, then: "Of course I mean no. Go away."

Jane made a face at the door, thinking with disgust that Selina probably wished to remain available on Colonel Tavington's account. _Perhaps she's hoping he'll return early, while my father is occupied in his study, and then—_

Well, Selina would not betray Jane's father today. Colonel Tavington would be in Charlestown with Jane, and Selina would wait for him in vain. It was some consolation amid a host of doubts and fears.

Chief among them were these: would Tavington actually meet her at British Headquarters at eleven o'clock as promised? Would they actually marry? And, if so, where would she be living tonight? She hoped Tavington could find some decent quarters for her. She did not need anything large—a room for herself , a room for Tavington, a room for Miss Gilpin, a room for Biddy and Letty, a sitting room, perhaps a dining parlor—that would be quite enough. All Charlestown would be talking!

And then there was her father. He would be very displeased, certainly, but she need not worry: she would be a married woman and out of his power. With some concern, she thought of her belongings. Would Papa be angry enough not to send on her clothes and books? She hoped not, but then, thinking things over a little longer, she opened her jewelry box and rolled all the items up in soft flannel. These and the precious miniature of her mother she dropped into a capacious pocket, along with her tinderbox, her little money purse, a comb, two lace-trimmed handkerchiefs, and her ivory toothbrush. On a whim, she stuffed in a little square of scented soap in a traveling box, and a sachet of her favorite lavender and lemon. The pocket, full to bursting, stood out from her hip like old-fashioned panniers.

Biddy, she was sure, would be sent on to her. Her father would not dare steal something as expensive as a slave—a slave whom all Charlestown knew to belong to Jane. It might take a few days, but Biddy would be with her soon. How happy they would all be when reunited, free of Ashbury and Selina Rutledge!

Her money box! Hidden behind her dullest books was a little tin box where Jane kept her secret cache of money. She had been receiving her own income for over three years, and had converted some to bank notes and coin. After paying the two hundred pounds a year her father demanded for room and board, she still had a great deal left over. Any prospective husband, she knew, would know about her twenty thousand pounds, prudently invested and prudently untouched by her. Nobody but Jane and Letty knew about the fifteen hundred forty-seven pounds, nine shillings, and sixpence hidden in her room. It was all part of her dream of independence. If things ever got too bad at home, she would have had cash on hand to aid in her escape.

Awkwardly, she struggled to push the box into her other pocket. The sharp, uneven corners frayed the embroidered twill. It would bang against her leg as she walked. No matter. With the width of her heavy skirts, no one would be able to see it.

She dressed in her best from the skin out: her best shift, her best stays, her best embroidered pockets, her best plain white silk stockings and garters, her best and strongest underpetticoat, her best plain silk petticoat, and finally her best blue traveling habit. She looked in the mirror, sighing to see that Letty's painstakingly applied cosmetics did not hide her anxious, strained expression. With great deliberation, she donned her prettiest hat, dark blue and plumed with a profusion of ostrich feathers, and slipped on her newest gloves. Her boots were stoutly made, and nearly new. Though it was warm, she would have a cloak put in the carriage just in case. She could take nothing else. After sending Letty off to her own breakfast this morning, she asked her maid to wear her best today, and to bring her cloak, as well.

What of Miss Gilpin? Papa would be angry with her too, though she would be completely innocent of wrongdoing. There she was a little easier. Miss Gilpin would always have a home with Jane, and Papa would not dare try to refuse an Englishwoman her possessions, with the town full of and commanded by Englishmen. There would be unpleasantness, certainly, but he would pack up and send her belongings to her, certainly.

Going downstairs, full of reckless, carefree bravado, she forced herself to eat breakfast, though it all went down in nervous, square-feeling chunks. The carriage pulled in front of the front door, and Jane, with Miss Gilpin and Letty, was rumbling off to an uncertain future in Charlestown.

----

When the man was finally brought before him, glass-eyed and rancid with vomit, Tavington vented his wrath on the inattentive dragoons sent to watch over him.

"I ordered you to bring this man to me _sober and competent_ at eleven o'clock!"

"Sorry, sir," protested the sergeant helplessly. "He had a flask in his boot. He's that artful—you can't keep him from his liquor."

With a sneer, Tavington turned on his regimental chaplain, the Reverend Mr. Henry Porterfield Blethers. This had been his best hope of keeping the proceedings a secret until beyond the possibility of Jane's family interfering. He had, he secretly admitted, somewhat miscalculated. If this broken-down man of the cloth were too drunk to perform the ceremony, Tavington's carefully constructed plan would collapse.

"You're a disgrace, sir."

The chaplain, leaning unsteadily against the big sergeant's shoulder, grinned weakly. "And I know it, sir. It's been dinned into me since I was eleven. 'A _damned_ disgrace!'" He wiped flecks off his chin with the back of his hand. "That is my nature, my vocation, and my---" he straightened unsteadily, "--and my predestined fate. Sir. Colonel."

"Don't grin like a monkey at me, sir. Don't think I can't order punishment for you. It might do you good to take a few lashes with a rope's end in front of the men."

Blethers smiled a foggy reproof. "I, sir, am a gentleman. Can't order a gentleman flogged. Sir. Colonel."

Tavington leaned in, fixing the man's eye with his. "Don't try my patience, sir. In the backcountry I shall do as I see fit. Now, can you read the marriage service or can you not?"

The chaplain was airily delighted. "Marriage? How delightful? Who is to be wed? Corporal Bangs? Again?"

"_I_ am to be married. And I want it done properly. Bordon! The license, if you please."

Bordon presented the license, obtained that very hour from the clerk of Berkeley County. The chaplain looked it over, eyebrows straining toward heaven, mouth turned down in a caricature of thought.

"You, sir, and—Samuel Talbot? Extraordinary!"

Bordon growled, "That is the name of the clerk. Here," he pointed, "is the name of the bride."

"Jane Rutledge. Much better." He smiled sweetly. "All right, then." His voice rose in clerical diapason. "Dearly Beloved---"

"She's not here yet, Blethers."

"Oh. Sorry."

Fists clenching, Tavington snarled, "Take him outside and wash his face. Then escort him back upstairs to the map room. Don't let go of him, if you value your sorry lives. I daresay there's nothing to be done about the smell."

Blethers volunteered helpfully, "I shall stand at a considerable distance, sir."

Tavington turned from him in disgust, and looked anxiously out the window. Bordon reassured him.

"It wants a few minutes yet, sir. She'll be here."

With a grunt of acknowledgement, Tavington remained staring at the street below. When Blethers was shoved past him, somewhat cleaner, he hardly noticed him.

It was not long before a carriage rolled down Broad Street. It stopped nearly at the door of the mansion that was now British headquarters. A footman hurried to help the occupants descend.

_Yes!_ Tavington slapped his hand on the window frame. _Victory!_ It was Jane, who now turned and seemed to be speaking urgently to her companions within the coach. In a few seconds, Miss Gilpin appeared, looking about her in bewilderment; and after another pause, the pretty young Letty, who seemed collected but very grave.

Jane was dressed handsomely in a blue habit. Tavington suppressed a chuckle. The military cut of her dark blue jacket made her look a little like one of his Continental adversaries. The thought, once acknowledged, troubled him a little. Was it an omen?

_Rubbish!_ She had simply worn her best traveling clothes to her wedding. Quite understandable. And the color was a good one on her. The hat was particularly admirable. He need not be ashamed of such a bride. Plain, perhaps, but perfectly well bred and elegant.

It had begun to rain. Jane was hurrying to the shelter of the entrance, no doubt to protect her feathers, and to tell the sentry her business. Tavington hurried downstairs to meet her, put out at his own bad manners. He should have been there, in order to spare her embarrassment.

-----

The sentry was polite, and admitted her to the busy entry hall. She had been in this house many times before, but not since it had been commandeered as headquarters for the British Army. It was full of uniformed men, full of clerks, noisy with deep male voices. Jane looked up to see Colonel Tavington—_her_ Colonel Tavington--hastening down the stairs to greet her. He really was extraordinarily handsome. A wonderful smile, oddly sweet on such a haughty individual, melted her caution.

"Miss Rutledge," he said, taking her hand in his own warm one, "you do me great honour. You've have made me a happy man."

She managed a weak smile in response. He was so much taller than she. No wonder men could order women about. Swallowing hard, her dry throat managed a reply.

"Surely you did not think I would fail to keep my word."

"I trust your word, but all sorts of happenstances could have prevented you."

"Well," she said shyly, "Here I am in spite of all of them."

Bordon joined them, bowing and smiling encouragingly at the nervous bride. Behind her, Miss Gilpin and Letty had entered.

Miss Gilpin did not mince words.

"My dear Jane, you intend to marry the Colonel? Today?"

"This instant, Madam," Tavington assured his bride's chaperone. "I have obtained the license from the clerk. My regimental chaplain stands ready to officiate upstairs." Tavington hoped the man was standing. If necessary he could lean on a sergeant, sit, lie down, or swing from a tree—but he _would_ perform the ceremony.

His smiles and assurances did not reassure Miss Gilpin. "May I see this license?"

Bordon presented it to her. She perused it, mouth tight. "After the ceremony," she said, "it must be signed by your chaplain, by the bride and groom, and by the witnesses. And then it must be properly registered by the clerk."

"Indeed, Miss Gilpin," soothed Bordon. "I shall take it to the man myself."

"I shall accompany you," she declared. "Jane must have a certificate proving that this was a legitimate marriage."

Acquiescence all around. Tavington could not but agree that a legal document was essential in case of Rutledge's opposition.

The old lady, without bothering with apologies, pulled Jane aside for a private word. A little group of Loyalists officers passed, bowing. Jane recognized one or two of them, and curtsied in reply, somewhat distracted. Miss Gilpin then demanded her attention.

"My dear Jane! Think, I beg you, before you proceed. You hardly know this man. He is handsome, true, but can that make you happy? You need time, my dear, to know his true nature."

"He will take me away from Papa and Selina. That is enough."

Miss Gilpin grabbed at her sleeve. "It is _not_ enough! You are putting your life and fortune into the hands of a stranger. You may think you can be no worse off than you are at present, but that is not true! You have no idea the harm a man can do you. Please, my dear, pause and reflect. Let us go home. If the man is worthy of you, he will correspond. A good man will not mind waiting until you are absolutely sure."

Jane tossed her head impatiently. "I am absolutely sure now! And I promised. I'm not a coward."

"Oh, Jane! Don't marry the man out of pride or spite! Nothing good can come of it."

Letty was standing in a corner, looking miserable. Jane beckoned her over. "Letty, I want you to hear this too. Don't be worried about my marriage. I fully intend to take you with me. And you, Miss Gilpin—you will always have a home with me. Please don't think that I mean to leave you behind!"

"It's not that, Miss Jane," Letty sighed. "I just don't think—he's not—" Unable to tell what she knew, her face betrayed all her anguish.

Understanding her, at least in part, Jane answered softly, "I think I understand you. The Colonel may have made—mistakes---but he is here to marry _me_ today."

Miss Gilpin regard her sadly. "If you are determined, Jane--"

"I am." She gave each of them a hand, and smiled. "Be happy for me." She turned and rejoined an impatient Tavington. The two women looked at each other and then at Tavington, a look that he understood as very serious reservations about this wedding. Neither of them was running away to tattle, or openly protesting, at least.

Giving his bride his arm, he led her upstairs. Bordon accompanied Miss Gilpin, doing his best to address her concerns, and an unhappy Letty trailed behind, hoping that no one would notice her and order her to wait in the coach. If this disaster must happen, she wanted to see it for herself.

A number of staff officers noticed the little procession. One major paused, and asked, "Good day to you, Colonel. This looks like a wedding!"

"It is," Tavington replied curtly.

The slender, rather dandified officer then turned to Jane, with an elaborate bow. "Then permit me to wish you joy, Madam."

"Thank you." She wished to say more, but Tavington was keeping her moving along. The polite officer went into another room, and seemed to be telling someone within his news. _Men are such gossips, _Jane thought, for not the first time.

"--a wedding! Tavington himself! With the Rice King's daughter!"

"--Rutledge, isn't it?"

There was a door a little on, and Tavington led her through it. This room was the most altered of all. It had been a lady's boudoir, and was now full of tables and papers, with a big map of the colony spread out against the far wall. A lanky, unkempt man in a clerical collar was waiting, _Book of Common Prayer_ in hand, and flanked by a pair of huge dragoons. He smiled at them all dreamily, showing blackened teeth. Jane felt a faint foreboding.

"Will the bride and groom approach?"

Tavington gave Jane another smile, and stepped forwardly instantly. Jane thrilled with hope, clung to his side, and looked up at the chaplain, ready to face her future.

Blethers paused, his book open in his hands, and gave her a quick raking glance from top to toe. His brows rose. He looked down to his book again with a very visible, very dubious grimace.

It was not lost on anyone before him. Tavington stiffened, already planning revenge for the insult. Bordon was sorry for the poor girl. Miss Gilpin was indignant; Letty, disgusted.

And Jane was crushed. On the one day she had expected no invidious comparisons of her looks with anyone else's, she had been publicly judged and found wanting. Her face burned, and words came haltingly. Then anger followed shame, and she turned away, her voice loud in her own ears. "Is this some sort of trick? This man cannot be a clergyman!"

Blethers shrugged. "Alas, I am: more's the pity."

Jane rounded furiously on Tavington. "If you wished to mock me, you did not need to go to such lengths!"

Tavington glared blue murder at the chaplain, who smirked uneasily. Then he took Jane aside, and tried to reassure her, telling her the truth. "The man is indeed an ordained minister of the Church of England. He is my regimental chaplain. He is also, as is evident, a sot and an imbecile. But it was my best hope of keeping this matter quiet until we chose to reveal it. I beg--" he stumbled over the unfamiliar word, "—your indulgence. He _shall_ perform the ceremony, and he _will_ be duly punished for his beastly drunkenness and insolence."

He led her back before the wretched fellow, avoiding the furious eyes of Miss Gilpin. He fixed Blethers with a grim stare, and growled, "Begin, sir."

Some officers began gathering at the back of the room, come to watch. Jane felt uncomfortable, but clearly her wedding was to be their entertainment of choice for the moment.

Blethers, pleased with his growing audience, raised his eyes to Heaven, and began intoning the service with insincere unction.

"Dearly Beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony; which is an--_honourable_ estate," Blethers snorted, and continued drawling out the words, and putting special emphasis on the ones he found most amusing. "-- instituted of God in the time of man's _innocency,_ signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and his Church; which holy estate Christ adorned and _beautified_ with his presence, and first miracle that he wrought, in Cana of Galilee; and is commended of _Saint Paul—"_

Blethers coughed here, a noise that sounded like "odious man"—"to be _honourable_ among all men: and therefore is not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or _wantonly_--" he leered at Tavington "--to satisfy men's _carnal lusts and appetites_, like _brute beasts_ that have no understanding; but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God; duly considering the causes for which Matrimony was ordained."

He straightened up to his full height, swayed precariously, and then continued:

"First, It was ordained for the _procreation_ of _children_—" here his leer was for Jane—" to be brought up in the fear and nurture of the Lord, and to the praise of his holy Name.

"Secondly, It was ordained for a remedy against sin, and to avoid _fornication_; that such persons as have not the gift of _continency_ might marry, and keep themselves _undefiled _members of Christ's body." Blethers' lips turned down, in monkey sadness, commiserating with Tavington at his loss of freedom.

"Thirdly, It was ordained for the _mutual society, help,_ and _comfort,_ that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity. Into which holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined. Therefore if any man can show any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever _hold his peace_."

Here he paused, smiling. The pause lengthened into a silence.

Tavington broke it harshly. "Continue, Mr. Blethers."

"Sorry. Only sporting to give everyone a last chance. " He took up his book again.

"I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the _dreadful day of judgement_ when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in Matrimony, ye do now _confess_ it. For be ye well assured, that so many as are coupled together otherwise than God's Word doth allow are not joined together by God; neither is their Matrimony _lawful_."

Another long pause. Blethers reached into his pocket for his handkerchief, and blew his nose loudly.

Tavington waited, fuming. Jane, her eyes now on the floor, just wanted it all to be over.

Blethers looked up, and asked, "No impediment?"

"None, sir," Tavington answered, his voice ominous.

"Oh, good. Now come the parts where you join in. Wait," he said, and leaned toward Tavington, who wrinkled his nose at the stink. "I don't know your full Christian name, sir."

"William Mortimer." 

Blethers sniggered, but quickly began speaking, before Jane could tell the chaplain her own name. She bit her lip.

"William _Mortimer_, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou _love_ her, _comfort_ her, _honour_, and _keep_ her in sickness and in health; and, _forsaking all other_, keep thee _only_ unto her, so long as ye both shall live?"

Tavington said shortly, tired of the man's games, "I will."

"Good. And—" he turned to Jane with a look of mild inquiry.

She cleared her throat, detesting him. "Jane Clarissa."

He rolled his eyes. "Jane _Clarissa_, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou _OBEY_ him, and _SERVE_ him--" he rattled off the next words, as if unimportant—" love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?

Jane glared at him defiantly. "I will!"

Blethers flinched in mild alarm.

"Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?"

Jane wondered, herself.

Bordon said quietly, "I do."

Tavington, not needing to be prompted, took Jane's right hand in his. Blethers waited, watching in faint distaste, and then continued:

"Repeat after me: 'I, William take thee, Clarissa, to my wedded wife--'" 

"I, William, take thee, _Jane_, to my wedded wife—"

"--to _have_ and to _hold_ from this day forward,--"

"--to have and to hold from this day forward,--" 

"--for _better _for _worse_, for _richer _for _poorer_, in _sickness _and in _health_, to _love _and to _cherish_—"

"--for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish—"

"--till _death _us do part, according to _God's holy ordinance_; and thereto I plight thee my troth."

"--till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth."

"Oh, well done," Blethers remarked. He made a vague gesture. "Now do the switching of hands thing."

Flushing with embarrassment, Jane resignedly took Tavington big right hand in hers.

Blethers spoke slowly and distinctly, apparently having decided she was a half-wit.

"I, Clarissa, take thee, William, to my wedded husband—" 

"I, _Jane,_ take thee, William—"

"Jane?" asked Blethers, surprised. "Are you sure?

"Quite sure," she hissed back.

"Oh, well, carry on then."

"I, Jane, take thee, William, to my wedded husband—" 

"--to _have_ and to _hold_ from this day forward—"

"--to have and to hold from this day forward—" 

" --for better for _worse_, for richer for _poorer_, in _sickness_ and in health, to love, cherish, and to _OBEY_—"

"-- for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey—"

"-- till _death_ us do part, according to _God's holy ordinance;_ and thereto I give thee my _troth."_

"-- till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth."

She looked up at Tavington, hoping all would be well.

Blethers remarked, "You can let go of his hand now. And you, Colonel, have you a ring about you?"

Tavington produced a heavily chased gold band. It was a bit of plunder from further south. And obviously, he noted with annoyance, glancing at Jane's thin little hands, much too big for her. He laid it on the proffered prayer book. Blethers picked it up and looked it over approvingly. Tavington wondered for a moment if he would dare to bite it.

Thankfully, he did not. He gave it back to Tavington, saying, "A good bit of gold, that. We're almost done. Just repeat this after me:

"With this ring I thee wed, with my _body_ I thee _worship_, and with all my _worldly goods_ I thee endow—"

"With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow—"

"--In the Name of the _Father,_ and of the _Son,_ and of the _Holy Ghost._ Amen."

"--In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen."

"Well, stick it on her, then."

Tavington took Jane's left hand, and slid on the too-large ring. It hung there, massive and somehow inappropriate. Jane tightened her hand around the awkward thing, trying to keep it from slipping off.

Blethers took a deep breath, and concluded the service.

"Those whom _God_ hath joined together let _no man_ put asunder. Forasmuch as William _Mortimer_ and Jane _Clarissa_ have consented together in _holy wedlock, _and have witnessed the same before _God_ and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth either to other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a _Ring_, and by joining of hands; I pronounce that they be _Man and Wife_ together, In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost."

With a smirk, he added, "And may God have mercy on your souls. Amen."

There was a collective gasp. Jane's huge ring dropped to the floor with a bright, musical _clink._ Tavington's face reddened, and with two long strides he had crossed the distance to the chaplain and had him by his white, clerical collar.

"You're a dead man, Blethers."

Undismayed, the drunken chaplain replied, with the serenity of the hopeless alcoholic, "I always was. So are we all." And with that, he collapsed in a stupor.

-----

**Note:** I am well aware that today Charleston is in Charleston Country. It was in Berkeley County in 1780. While online histories of Charleston County claim it was organized in 1769, that is not exactly true. Due to pressure from the Regulator movement in the backcountry, additional judicial districts were set up, and Charleston was one of them. However, it was not until after the Revolution that South Carolina was divided into more counties (and even then there was considerable evolution.)

**Next--Chapter 8: Breaching the Citadel **(the chapter I fear _nobody _will like!)**  
**


	8. Breaching the Citadel

_Disclaimer: I own neither the rights to the film The Patriot, nor those to the novel Clarissa.  
_

**Chapter 8: Breaching the Citadel**

After the debacle of the wedding ceremony, Jane wondered what else could go wrong that day. She scooped up the impossible wedding ring and stuffed it into her already-stuffed pocket, along with everything else. They all trooped to the clerks' office, hardly daring to look at one another. Blethers had been roused and made to sign the license as officiator, and then been dragged off bodily by the dragoons. Tavington was angrily silent, striding down the street so quickly that Jane, her arm linked indissolubly in his, was forced to trot to keep up.

The business with the clerk was concluded quickly. The clerk himself, Mr. Talbot, who knew Jane's father, looked at her with curiosity and concern. She gave him a timid acknowledgment, and then was whisked away by her new husband.

"Where are we going?' she asked.

"I thought you might be hungry. We are going to Swan's Tavern for a wedding breakfast."

"Oh." Jane had never been inside a tavern, and was fearful and excited, wondering if it could possibly be as dreadful as she had been told. She had never had a meal in a public house: for that matter, she had never had a meal at any table other than a relative's. This would certainly be a new experience. Then she said, "What am I to do with Letty?"

"She can dine with the servants there."

"But will they—" There was no more time, and Letty was told to go to the strange kitchen full of strange people. She felt as uneasy as Jane.

It was a big, noisy place, and looked very rough. Jane hung back at the sight of so many uncouth men drinking so much. A pair of soldiers were shouting at each other, and Jane thought they must come to blows at any second. She was so riveted by their quarreling that she ran into another officer coming her way.

"Miss Rutledge!"

Jane brightened at the sight of Harry Nettles' pleasant, friendly face. "Good day to you, Mr. Nettles. How do you do?"

Tavington paused, and greeted the lieutenant courteously. He had a very good opinion of the 17th Light Dragoons, and knew they would all be working together in the backcountry. Miss Gilpin was introduced and the officers made small talk. Nettles was surprised to see Miss Rutledge in a tavern, accompanied only by her companion and a group of officers. He was intending to pay a call at Cedar Hill before leading his men north, and taking a breath, asked Miss Rutledge if he could have that honor.

Jane was a little embarrassed. Realizing that she had not told Mr. Nettles of her marriage, she opened her mouth, when Tavington broke in, making everything clear.

"Why don't you join us, Nettles? We were going to take a meal upstairs in a private room to celebrate our wedding."

"Wedding?"

"Yes, Miss Rutledge and I have just been married. She is now Mrs. Tavington."

Nettles, startled and disappointed, nevertheless immediately managed a polite smile, and replied, "I wish you both joy." To Jane, in a softened voice, he said, "My heartfelt wishes for your every happiness, Mrs. Tavington."

Something in his eye caught her attention. The gentle regretful expression reminded her of his kindness at the ball. He was certainly nothing to look at compared to Tavington; but as he stood there, plain as herself, but considerate and attentive, she had a horrible, sneaking feeling that she had made an irreparable mistake.

"Alas," he was saying, "I am expected by Colonel Tarleton, or I should not have missed the occasion." He bowed. "Again, my sincere regards. Mrs. Tavington, your servant." And with that, he left, stunned at this unexpected stroke of bad luck. Jane looked after him with a little sigh. She could see writing on the helmet in his hand as he left the tavern, and tried to read it.

"'Or Glory?'" she puzzled.

Tavington was amused at her ignorance. "The skull and cross bones above the words signifies 'Death.' Thus, they are the 'Death or Glory Boys.'"

"Oh," she said, feeling very stupid.

----

Letty walked around the inn to the kitchen, small and low-roofed, with a covered walkway to the inn proper. Standing outside, not sure what to do, she was about to call out, when a tall, very black man saw her standing there.

He bowed, and looked puzzled. "Mornin' to you, Missy. You need to see the Master?"

His words attracted the attention of the slaves working within. The cook, a strong, rather fat woman with a stern expression, peered out through the open window at the stranger. She glanced quickly at the woman helping her, a little worried.

Letty felt almost too shy to speak. "No—I—I'm Miss Rutledge's maid, and they told me to go back here to get something to eat."

The man grinned and bobbed again; and with a flourish, gestured her into the hot kitchen. There was a long plank table with benches on either side. The cook was busy, but cocked her head and studied Letty carefully.

"Miss Rutledge? Miss _Jane_ Rutledge?"

The other woman spoke up. "You her gal Letty? Biddy's daughter? I know your Mama. She's a mighty nice woman." She set down the bowl she was stirring and led Letty to a bench. "My name is Esther."

The cook was unimpressed. "Here! Jubal!" she snapped, lifting a heavy platter and giving it to the tall man. "You get this ham to the Missus before I give you a good swat!"

The man hoisted the platter, singing to himself, and the cook took another look at Letty. "I don't know about having such a fine-dressin' _lady_ in my kitchen," she grumbled.

Esther shot Letty an apologetic little smile. "Miss Rutledge must be real nice to give you good clothes. That's a mighty pretty dress."

"Thank you kindly." She sat silently, not able to think of anything to say. Esther took a brown crockery plate, and began spooning up a generous helping of greens cooked with bacon. She added a huge chunk of cornbread, and set it before Letty with a kind, absent pat. That done, she went back to stirring her bowl and sharing gossip with the cook, whose name Letty overheard to be Sukey.

The food was hot and good, and Letty knew it was always wise to eat up when she had the chance. When she was done eating, she'd ask the women if she could help them. It would make the time pass.

Of course, Sukey was not sure a pampered house slave like Letty could do _anything_, but Esther gave her a plate of egg-whites to beat, and Letty whisked them diligently, feeling her wrist gradually go numb with her efforts. When the whites were in stiff peaks, Sukey grunted, and set her to picking seeds out of a pile of raisins. There was a crack of thunder, and the rain started coming down in heavy drops, thudding into the hard earth..

Two dirty, ragged little boys rushed in, steaming like puppies, and stopped, staring at Letty wide-eyed. She smiled at them, and they approached her slowly, examining her pretty straw hat with great interest.

The smaller one asked her straight out, "You a white lady? What you doin' in the kitchen?"

Sukey snorted.

"No," Letty answered, "I'm maid to Miss Rutledge. She's here with some friends. I thought I'd help out while I'm waiting for her."

"You talk fancy," the boy remarked innocently. Letty smiled and shrugged. He persisted. "You don't talk like no maid."

Esther thumped his small head with the flat of her hand. "Now hush, Lem! Some white folks like their maids to talk fine." To Letty, she said, "Don't you mind him, honey."

The older boy agreed with his brother. "You _look_ like a white lady."

"Well, I ain't one," Letty said shortly, wishing Miss Jane would call for her soon.

The tall servingman, Jubal, came back. "Them folks upstairs will be wantin' that custard, Sukey." He sorted through the array of pies cooling on the rack. "Master says to take up a rhubarb tart, too." He grinned over at Letty. "That your Missus upstairs? She sure got herself a fine gentleman. He give me two shillings for myself."

The other slaves crowded to see this bounty. Letty did not reply. She did not think the Colonel a fine gentleman. He was handsome, she supposed, but she knew nothing else good about him. And she was terribly worried. He would be her master, and her mother's master. What if he did not like them? What if he needed money, and sold them? Or sold only one of them? What if he liked Letty herself too much? She felt sick. And what about Miss Jane? What if he was mean to her?

She worked away, trying not to soil her best gown. The rain continued, darkening the stepping stones outside, pattering on the roof above them. It was a long, long time before Jubal looked in to tell her that Colonel Tavington had called for the carriage. Letty got up and brushed off her skirts, and thanked everyone for the hospitality. Esther was busy, but gave her a smile. The little boys called out shrill farewells. Sukey did not acknowledge her.

Trying not to get soaked, she picked her way through the weeds to the side of the building. Turning the corner, she walked into a man who was relieving himself against the wall.

He was a big white man, in a rough brown coat. He was as startled as she. "Your sairvant, ma'am," he yelped, hastily buttoning his breeches. Letty tried to rush past, but he grabbed at her arm, peering down at her face. "What we got here? A purty yaller gal?"

"Let go of me!" Letty pulled hard, and did not admit to anything. Sometimes if men weren't sure she was a slave, it was easier to get away. Out in the street ahead was Silas the coachman. Overjoyed at her good luck, she yanked free of the man's grip, shouting, "That's my carriage!" and ran.

The man did not pursue her. Instead, he flushed with embarrassment at his foolish mistake, and hoped she wouldn't hold it against him, if they met later.

----

The publican led them up the stairs to a neatly plastered private room. There were six of them: Jane, Tavington, Bordon, Miss Gilpin, and two officers Jane knew from Cedar Hill—Captain Weatherby and Captain Prebble. They were pleasant enough men, but Jane felt too shy to talk much, other than to accept their good wishes.

Jane longed to ask Tavington about their new quarters, but felt unable to in such a crowd. The food was brought, and was good, but did not taste or smell like the food at home. She took a glass of wine that Tavington poured for her, and tried a little of the clear, brown turtle soup.

Tavington discussed military affairs with his officers. Bordon varied the conversation, asking Miss Gilpin about her family's home in Bedfordshire, and her correspondence with her brother there, a widowed clergyman.

His tact was rewarded, and Miss Gilpin spoke willingly about dear Edward and her young nieces. "I have never seen them. My brother has written often, asking me to make my home with him and help educate the girls, but with the war—"

"Yes, the war," Bordon sympathized. "And of course Mrs. Tavington would no doubt miss you very much."

This Jane could manage. "Yes," she agreed. "I am sure I should miss her very much indeed. And the journey would be dangerous, with the privateers and the French navy. She is much better here, where she is safe."

"Not so very safe," Captain Weatherby pointed out. "With armies and militia and bandits all over the countryside, not even a big estate like Cedar Hill can be perfectly safe. At least you weren't in Charlestown during the bombardment."

"No," Miss Gilpin affirmed. "Providence smiled upon us. But now that Charlestown is securely occupied, Mr. Rutledge will probably take his family to his house here in town, which was undamaged. He always does so in the hot months, for the sea breezes."

"Wise of him," Tavington observed. "The safest, healthiest place for all civilians."

The black servingman was bringing in yet more platters of food: glazed ham, beef pie, a savory corn pudding, an excellent dish of spring greens cooked with bacon. Jane could not see her way to more than spoonfuls of the heavy fare, but the men were eating heartily, as active men always did. The questions remained at the tip of her tongue, unasked while the men enjoyed their food and wine.

And yet more food arrived, a custard so dense that a bite felt like lead in Jane's uneasy stomach, little sugared cakes dotted with raisins, glasses of syllabub, a rhubarb tart. The men went on, happily eating and talking in their incomprehensible army jargon, and then switching over to a discussion about the dragoons' horses. This was not so tedious, but a little went a long way. Miss Gilpin was quiet too, and Jane sat restlessly, crumbling a cake to powder while pretending to eat it.

Tavington's good mood was largely restored by the meal. It was decent, plain food in a respectable inn, and they would miss such places when out chasing the rebels in the backcountry. He sensed his new wife's boredom with the conversation, but had no idea what to talk about with her. He had secured Jane and her fortune, and his future was looking brighter already. She was a nice girl after all, and had borne with the drunken Blethers to his admiration. Someday, perhaps, they would laugh about their ridiculous ceremony.

The rain was coming down hard at last, drumming on the roof, sheeting the rippled windows. The servingman hastily closed the sashes, and there was a crack of thunder nearby. Jane, her mind obviously far away, jumped at the noise, and Tavington smiled his amused reassurance at her. She did not seem too comforted, and went back to crumbling her cake, her brow knit in a frown. _When left to herself, she is always frowning. Are her thoughts so gloomy?_

The men lingered over their meal, but at last it was time to be up and doing. Tavington wanted to dispose sensibly of his new wife, and then finish his preparations for tomorrow's departure. He assisted her to her feet, and called the servant.

"Have the Rutledge carriage brought around to the door, and summon Mrs. Tavington's maid Letty to join her there."

Jane could ask her questions at last. "Where are we going?"

"To Cedar Hill, of course."

"But—"

"My dear—Jane," he said, thinking he managed her name quite well, considering it was the first time to address her so. "We must break the news to your father. And besides," he laughed, "all my worldly possessions are there. Yours too, I daresay."

"But then, we are going to our own quarters, are we not?" her words faltered and died, as she saw his blank expression.

"No need for new quarters. I'm leaving tomorrow, after all. I've decided that the best thing for you is to stay with your family until the war is over and I can come and collect you."

Her jaw dropped. Her eyes stretched wide with horror at the import of his words. "Go back?" she croaked. _Papa will kill me. And if he does not, then Selina will._

Bordon caught Tavington's eye, with a reproving look. He had warned his colonel that Jane would not like this part of the plan. Tavington sniffed. It was his own plan, and in his opinion a very sound one. Jane would be safest with her own family--if they would have her. He admitted that Rutledge might be very displeased. That situation must be dealt with forthwith. Rutledge could not throw Tavington out: he was officially billeted there. It was best to deal with the unpleasantness at once, and then Jane would understand it was for the best.

----

Despite Tavington's haste in bundling her into the carriage, Jane still got quite wet. Her plumes hung sadly, dripping wet splotches onto her fine broadcloth habit. Her tears made yet more splotches, as she sobbed all the way home. Miss Gilpin and Letty sat on either side of her, each holding a hand, saying nothing. There was nothing to say.

She had tried to plead with Tavington, telling him she did not feel safe at Cedar Hill, that her father would be furious, and Selina spiteful. Tavington cut her off, telling her that he would have her obedience in this.

"You just gave your word to obey me, Madam. Are you to fail at the very first test?"

"Then take me with you--"

"Out of the question," he said, in a voice that forbade any further mention of_ that_ possibility.

She was silenced, but not convinced in the least. He did not know Cedar Hill as she did. She sat there, chilled and miserable, listening to the rain.

First they waited outside headquarters. Tavington had said he needed a word with Sir Henry about tomorrow, and that he would not be a moment. The moment stretched out into nearly an hour. By that time, the rain was letting up, and finally he and his officers appeared, chatting comfortably. They were off, and the sounds around Jane became those of the galloping hooves of the coach horses, and of the men accompanying them. Tavington had chose to ride rather than travel in the coach, probably to escape more of her pleading.

There was the last, well-known curve as the coach approved the carriage sweep. The horses slowed, and stopped, and the footman was jumping to the ground to unfold the steps and hand her down. Tavington was there before him, looking very commanding and inflexible. Jane glanced at him, and then stood aside, shoulders hunched, while he assisted Miss Gilpin. The women gathered in a dismal little group, not daring to enter the house.

Feeling some exasperated pity for his forlorn young bride, Tavington made her take his arm, and they marched in, followed by their loyal retainers. _It's rather like storming a castle,_ he laughed to himself.

Selina appeared from the parlor, looking very cross until her eye lit on him. Then she was all smiles, coming toward him, hand gracefully outstretched.

"Colonel, so kind of you to rescue poor Jane. Too bad about your hat, Jane dear," she smirked, in mocking sympathy. "I'd say you looked like a drowned cat, but with all the feathers, you're more like a plucked chicken!" Tavington wondered why he had ever found this woman amiable.

Rutledge was emerging from his study. "Is that Jane? Where the devil have you been?"

This was his cue, and Tavington, who did not fear rebel or Frenchman, did not fear a paunchy old rice planter, either.

"She has been in Charlestown, sir, with me. We have just been married."

There was a heavy silence. Then Selina shrilled, "Married!"

Rutledge's eyes narrowed. He took one or two threatening steps toward Tavington and Jane, and then his mouth snapped shut vengefully. He glared at his new son-in-law and ground out, "Colonel, you have not dealt honorably with me."

Tavington looked down his nose at the shorter man. "I beg to differ. The arrangements previously agreed to have been undertaken by me. If you wish to speak privately of them, you will find that they are well in train and are likely to be completed to your satisfaction." He had gone to Sir Henry early that morning to plead his case. He had happened on his commander in an unusual sanguine mood. Sir Henry was prone to fits of melancholia, but when he was in good spirits, they were very good indeed. Given Rutledge's lack of written pledges to the rebels, Sir Henry was inclined to make an example of magnanimity. Rutledge should be publicly rewarded for his—not loyalty, exactly—but his _absence_ of disloyalty. Rutledge's rice would not be released instantly, but soon, perhaps.

It was enough to get a hearing, if not enough to entirely mollify the angry father. Rutledge jerked his head toward the study, and snapped, "In here, sir, if you please." The two of them disappeared behind closed doors, and Jane and Miss Gilpin headed wearily to the parlor, followed by a venomous Selina. The officers milled about the hall, muttering uneasily among themselves, and then Bordon suggested they go to their quarters and give the family some privacy. Letty had already fled upstairs.

In the parlor, Selina was silent at first, her anger building, and then first had words with Miss Gilpin. "A fine chaperone, indeed! Why did you not prevent this outrage?"

Jane interposed. "Miss Gilpin knew nothing of my plans until we had actually arrived in Charlestown. Colonel Tavington met us at headquarters and we were married there by his regimental chaplain."

"A likely story! A shabby trick that could only deceive a little fool like you!"

"It was a legal marriage," Miss Gilpin declared fearlessly. "I saw the license and I saw it entered into the county marriage register."

"I don't believe it!" Selina was truly infuriated now, pacing back and forth, working herself into a rage. She felt betrayed by everyone: by Tavington, for whom she had waited all afternoon, by that pious shrew Miss Gilpin, and chiefly by Jane, who had used mean and underhanded arts to buy a husband—deliberately choosing Selina's lover to spite her. Of course Jane could not know he was her lover, but Selina felt the injury just as keenly.

"Well, I hope you find the bed you've made for yourself a _delightful_ one! You've always pretended to be so clever, but I knew you were stupid as a slave off the boat from Africa!" She sneered, "You don't even have a proper settlement! It would serve you right if he took your money and went back to England without you! He can do that, you know, and he probably will, and it will serve you right, you ugly, worthless, useless piece of ingratitude!" Her voice rose to a shriek. "And where have you been all day, if you were married in the morning?"

Jane kept her voice low, trying not to lose her own temper. "After the ceremony, we went to the clerk's office and saw to the registration. That took some time. Then we had a wedding breakfast, and then--." It sounded feeble, even to herself, and she blushed.

"A breakfast! Where?"

"The Swan Tavern."

Selina burst into harsh laughter. "A tavern! He took you to a tavern! And afterwards, did he take you to a private room?"

"Well---yes."

"You abandoned creature! You went to a tavern and let him have his way with you!"

Miss Gilpin protested indignantly, and Jane was appalled in her turn.

"He did nothing of the sort! We had a meal—Miss Gilpin and the officers were there! We were never out of their sight for a moment!"

Selina was not listening. "You're nothing but a harlot! A trollop! Entertaining soldiers in taverns! You're a disgrace! You belong in the gutter, and your father won't have you in the house another minute!"

"Be quiet!" Jane screamed back at her. "You don't understand anything! It was a wedding breakfast! _A wedding breakfast!_ Nothing happened!"

Miss Gilpin, terribly upset, begged them both to be calm. "Let us wait for Mr. Rutledge and Colonel Tavington and discuss this rationally!"

"Very sensible of you, Miss Gilpin," agreed Tavington, as he and Rutledge joined them.

Rutledge did not speak to the older woman, but merely cast an ugly glance her way. She sat down abruptly, and fixed her eyes on the floor.

Seating himself by Selina, he took her hand in his, patting it sympathetically. "I'm sorry, my dear. This scandal is too much for you. Jane's always been a stubborn, ill-natured girl, and now she's brought disgrace on us all."

"I believe," Tavington said icily, "that we agreed that such talk is pointless and reflects badly on your entire family. Your daughter and I are legally and honorably married. You have suffered no injury by this alliance, but rather the contrary." He stood by the chair where Jane sat slumped and sullen. "Jane, your father has agreed to accept our marriage and to receive you into his household once more as his daughter. It is by far the safest, wisest course while I am on campaign." He turned to Rutledge. "That was our agreement, was it not, sir?"

"Yes," Rutledge replied, as if he disliked the word. "As a daughter—a _penitent, dutiful_ daughter, I will permit her to remain under my roof. But I will tolerate no more wild behavior. There's nothing else to be said. I have work to do, and we'll see you both at dinner." He assisted Selina to her feet with tender solicitude, and they departed.

"I think I shall go to my room and rest," sighed Miss Gilpin. "Please excuse me." She passed by, with a sympathetic pat for Jane and a chilly stare for Tavington.

The two of them were left alone. "It's for the best, Jane."

"I can see that it would be convenient for you."

Exasperated, he tried to make her see his point of view. "You are not listening to me, Jane. It is not just a matter of convenience. It is a matter of your safety. A woman alone—whether in the country or in a garrison town like Charlestown--runs terrible risks. You need the protection of your father and his entire household."

"Do you imagine that put to it, my father would actually protect me from danger?"

"Of course he would."

She huffed an incredulous laugh. "You don't know him." She rose. "I'm very tired, wet, and dirty, and I must go change. You are resolved then, to leave me here?"

"Absolutely. There is no other reasonable option. Here you will be safe."

"I don't _want_ to be safe. I want to be free."

Tavington rolled his eyes. Swallowing her bitterness, Jane said nothing more.

----- 

After such dramatic disclosures, Tavington was himself glad of a chance to rest and change. He lay on the bed, thinking over the unfortunate events of the day. A pity that Jane did not agree with him, but it hardly mattered. He knew he was right, and she must learn to do as she was told. With a fresh shirt and some attention to his hair, he went downstairs to face his new family.

Dinner was unpleasant and ceremonious. Few words were exchanged, except among the officers. Selina hardly deigned to look at him, except to throw him the occasional pitying glance. Rutledge was grimly silent. Not a word was heard from Miss Gilpin or his new wife, still seated down the table from him. Jane looked wretchedly unhappy, and only picked at her dinner. Tavington hoped she would soon recover her spirits. _Perhaps tonight—_

It would be most deplorable, if their disagreement adversely affected their wedding night. Tavington was anticipating it with mixed feelings. Jane was not in her best looks: she had washed off the cosmetics and appeared red-eyed and sallow. Worse, she looked tired—wrung-out, even. Hardly the picture of a blushing bride. Not even Bordon was equal to trying to engage her in conversation. They ate their way through the meal, and when the ladies left, Rutledge declared he was going to bed.

The officers were left in possession of the dining room, with some good wine to attend to. Bordon quietly offered a toast to his Colonel's happiness, which was gravely drunk by all assembled. After a few more glasses, the conversation flowed more pleasantly. By the time they had finished, they found no ladies waiting in the parlor. Some of the officers were going out to relieve others at camp. The others agreed that an early night would be prudent, and they sat down to only a few hands of whist. Tavington knew it to be fruitless to delay the inevitable. He took a deep breath, bade the gentlemen good night, and went upstairs to do his duty.

----

She ought to be expecting him. He knocked softly, and receiving no reply, entered anyway. It was a pretty, virginal little room, mostly in white, smelling pleasantly of Jane's favorite lavender and lemon. The bed was dressed for warm weather with its white dimity curtains. Tavington brushed them aside to find Jane within.

His bride had fallen asleep, hands decorously folded on her middle, and at the rustle of the curtains parting she started up, looking very surprised. In her white nightgown, her hair done up in curling rags, she seemed small and vulnerable.

"What are you doing here? This is _my_ room."

"Yes," Tavington replied patiently. "And it is now also mine. We are married, after all." He smiled, hoping to calm her, but she sat up in bed, pulling up the covers around her like a shield.

She hissed, "Don't you dare! Go away!"

He laughed. "I've heard of maidenly modesty, but that is perhaps taking it too far. A marriage must be consummated, my dear, after all."

"I don't know what you mean. I don't want to be married to you. You're not the man I took you for. You betrayed me!"

"I? How have I betrayed you? I was there when I said I would be and I married you legally."

"And I'm getting nothing—_nothing_—out of it. You get my money and all and I get _nothing_. You knew I wanted to get away from home more than anything, and you're forcing me to stay here."

"Jane—"

"You _lied_ to me. You let me think you would help me and you're really just like my father—everything has to suit _you!" _

"Jane—" He was losing patience with her. He sighed and unclipped his sword. Laying it on the clothes press, he began unbuckling his sword belt.

Jane sat up in bed, eyes enormous. "What are you doing?"

"Getting ready for bed."

"Get out of here!"

"No." Grimly, he doffed his jacket and sat at the edge of the to remove his boots. If Jane had been in a good temper, he could have asked her to help him. Right now, she looked like she wanted to push him off her dainty white bed onto the floor. Tavington smirked, and the boots thudded to the floor, followed by his stockings whispering after.

"I'm going to scream."

"Go ahead. No one will help you." He regretted the cutting words immediately. Jane looked so frightened and desperate that he reached for her hand, wanting to allay her wedding night fears. "Jane—"

She hit out at him then, thin arms flailing frantically. "Get away! Leave me alone!" His good looks meant nothing to her at the moment. They were a trick, a bait for silly, lonely women like herself, a empty lure that drew her in, and then proved a sham.

Amused, Tavington caught at her hands, restraining her. She was surprisingly strong, and she wrenched her right wrist from his grasp and struck him across the nose, just enough to sting. With an angry snarl, he grabbed the clawing little hand and pushed her back on the bed, her wrists held tight.

Jane was terrified. This stranger had forced himself into her life, into her room, into her bed, and she was powerless against him. He could hurt her, he could kill her, even, and she could do nothing to defend herself. She struggled against him, trying to catch her breath, her head lashing from side to side. She thought again about calling for help, but knew even in her terror that it would do no good. _My father would never help me, and Selina would just laugh. _

And then, reluctantly, she began to cry. "Please," she sobbed, "please let go of me. You're hurting me. Stop, stop, please—"

Tavington hated this. This was the awful climax of a perfectly awful day. This was why, he reminded himself, he had always made it a point to avoid the company of virgins.

"Jane. Stop this nonsense. We are married, and I have a right to be here." She was still crying and struggling, and he hissed in her ear. "I never thought a sensible girl would lose her nerve like this. It _has_ to be done, Jane. I won't let you go running off to Papa to ask for an annulment."

Her tearful eyes held no comprehension.

"Jane, there's no _time_ for this! I must be gone in a few hours. Lie still and quiet: you're only making this worse for yourself." _I ought to be gentle: I ought to be affectionate_. _I'm going to regret this night later_. He took a deep growling breath, trying to hold his temper.

He asked sharply, "Are you going to hit me again?" Her hands pinned, Jane sniffed and shook her head in helpless surrender. "Good. I hate being hit on the nose."

Warily, he released her wrists, and she rubbed at them, still sobbing. With another deep breath, he unbuttoned his breeches. _Just get it done. Just get it done_ _and over with, and the girl will calm down. _The anger building in him made it easier. He had wondered if he would find her attractive enough to perform properly, or if he would need to think about comelier conquests in the past to help him through the night.

She looked down at him, and her face was white with terror. She whimpered, "Oh, no, please, please, no, please don't—"

"Stop this wailing, Jane! You make my head ache." He was fairly hot with all this ridiculous wrestling, and pulled his shirt over his head, casting it somewhere into the shadows on the floor. Jane's nightgown was in his way: he would have liked to have had it off of her, but it would have meant further controversy. Instead, he pushed it up, exposing her pitifully thin hips and belly. _Does the girl never eat?_

Pushing farther, he groped at her chest, finding the small breasts, no more than nubbins, with small pink nipples. He fumbled past the fold of her shift to fondle one with thumb and forefinger. She looked up at him in astonishment, and squeaked faintly. This raised a half-smile from him, and his hand smoothed over her more lovingly. She had remarkably soft skin, he noted. He had always been told that every woman has her own native charm. This soft skin was Jane's. He stroked her a little longer, pleased at the feel of her.

Gravely, because he thought it incumbent on him, he lay beside her, wrapping her gently in his arms, and gave her a long sweet kiss. His best kiss, in fact, reserved in the past for his favorite charmers. Jane was certainly not one of them, especially since at the moment she was looking quite dreadful, but she was his wife, and was thus entitled to his best efforts. Nothing rough, nothing intrusive; simply a soft, slightly rhythmic pressure, opening her mouth just a little, humming low—

Jane shut her eyes at last. She was outraged and terribly, terribly angry, but this was nice. She had never been kissed by a man before. How warm and agreeable it was, and how pleasant. His strong arms held her fast; the scent of him ensnared her. Imperceptibly, she began to relax, hearing as if from far away her new husband commanding her.

"Now put your arms around me."

She obeyed. She had promised to obey him. This was a pleasanter command than others she had been given. Her nightgown was bunched around her shoulders, and she could feel his skin against her own. His legs were hard with muscle, and the hair on them and on his chest tickled her. He kissed her again, and she felt a deep, pleasurable twist in her belly, like a fish leaping in a moonlit pond. Her hands rested lightly on his smooth back. She did not dare move them. Pleased that she was at last quiet, Tavington kneed her legs apart, readying himself to finish the business. The first light pressure made Jane's eyes widen, and she remembered the red spear impaling Selina. _No!_

"Wait! Wait! Tomorrow—" Every sinew in her body tightened. _I'm not ready for this. I'm not ready for this. I'm not like Selina—_

"Hush, Jane," he growled, voice thick, breath fast and hot on her cheek.

She pushed at his shoulders in a frenzy, trying to escape. He clutched her tighter, and then his flesh, thrusting deep, pinned her thrashing to the bed.

A sharp, tearing pain forced a cry from her: a series of thrusts, each deeper, each tearing a little more until he was inside her and she thought she must surely die. Jane bit the pillow beside her, trying not to scream, trying not to be a laughingstock, a figure of fun, an ugly, stupid, ridiculous _joke_ to Selina and Papa. They must know perfectly well what was happening. Her chest pressed down by his greater weight, she panicked, feeling that she was smothering. Her eyes rolled back in a near faint.

Tavington gripped the exasperating girl, now gone limp in his arms. _Thank God._ He hammered away, trying to feel some satisfaction in possessing this scraggy little body. He imagined Selina, juicy and wanton, he imagined _twenty thousand pounds… __Ah, there. At last. _

The man had stopped ramming into her. Jane lay trembling, hardly knowing if she was still alive. Was it over? She did not dare move. She could feel his flesh gone still inside her, except for a faint pulsing. _One, two, three, four…_

He grunted, and pushed himself off of her. Jane gasped, grateful for the blessed, blessed air filling her lungs. And then another sob rose in her throat to choke her. The terrible stranger dared to speak to her, very softly and gently.

"Jane, are you all right?"

Hating him, she sobbed again, clutching at her gown, pushing it down, wanting to cover herself. She was so cold. She was wet down there-- she was sopping-- something terrible had happened. She felt down and then looked at her hand and gasped with fright.

Tavington tried to calm her. It was wrong, really, for girls to be brought up to be this innocent. It only led to misery. "It's just a little blood, Jane. Let me help you."

He staggered a little as he got up from the bed, and nearly tripped on his breeches. Kicking them from his legs with an oath, he went to the washstand and splashed a sponge in the water. He looked back at the bed, where Jane was still shivering and sobbing soundlessly. He wrung out the sponge with a sigh, and climbed back onto the bed. Jane was staring at him as at some monster. When he tried to part her legs, she stiffened.

"I'm just going to wash you, my dear." Trying to help her understand, he said, "Such a fuss over losing one poor little maidenhead. Do you understand me? If you have read Shakespeare, you will know the word." She was still staring at him in disbelief.

He tossed her the sponge. "Fine. Do it yourself." And then he felt like a dog when she began to sob again. Impatiently, he pushed her back and manhandled the knobby knees apart again. He touched her with the wet sponge, and she gave a sad little bleat, like a hurt lamb. Feeling pity always irritated him, and he did the work quickly, wiping her clean without much ceremony.

"There," he said, throwing the sponge neatly into the basin. "You're all right. There's nothing wrong with you that hasn't happened to every woman in the world since Eve. You are officially deflowered. 'The affair is over and Clarissa lives.'"

She did not look convinced. And she had had as awful a day as he. He spoke more kindly, "Jane—"

"Leave me alone. You're disgusting. I hate you."

Jane wriggled away from him, toward the very edge of the bed, and turned on her side, her back to him. She was still sobbing, a faint gulping noise that she muffled with her pillow. He curled up behind her, wrapping an arm around her shaking ribs. Gently, he stroked her, avoiding anything overtly erotic. The girl needed calming and reassurance now: nothing that she might interpret as a threat. Still, he could not resist leaning around to kiss her cheek softly. She stiffened at the touch of his lips.

"Jane," he murmured. "My dear wife. Sleep sweetly, and perhaps in the morning you won't think so ill of me."

There was another gulp, and Tavington eased onto his back with a sigh, too tired to try to console her further. There was no time. He had won the day. The citadel was breached, the prize was taken, and victory was his. He needed sleep himself, for he would be leaving in a few hours. Somehow he would have to right things in the future, but now he must rest. Uncomfortably, he was aware that it had not gone well, and that in his impatience he had done rather less than his best. _Oh, well done, Will. Well done, indeed. It took years for your mother to learn to hate your father, but you seem to have managed to make your wife hate you in a single night. _But love-making, even love-making badly performed with an unwilling and unappealing partner, is a relaxing business, and Tavington was soon peacefully asleep.

It was pitch dark outside when he rose at three and dressed in his own room by the light of a single candle. An orderly reported to carry down his baggage. Tavington checked for anything he might have forgotten, and then knew he must bid farewell to his bride. He carried his candlestick with him, and entered the little white virginal room, now rather disordered. The curtains were drawn forbiddingly around the bed.

"I'm leaving now, Jane. I may not see you for some time."

Silence.

Jane did not speak or move, though Tavington sensed that she was awake. Still as a waxen image and barely breathing in the humid darkness, Jane Tavington stared up at the dim grey shape of her bed canopy, and listened to the fading hoofbeats as her husband left her, not much caring if she saw him ever again.

-----

**Notes: **_"The affair is over. Clarissa lives." _Tavington quotes Samuel Richardson's enormously long and equally enormously popular epistolary novel of 1748, _Clarissa_, (or more completely, _Clarissa Harlowe: or The History of a Young Lady_). Tavington and Jane both had read it, of course. Readers who know the novel know that Clarissa was not, unlike Jane, married when those words were written about her. Tavington is not serious in comparing their situations. Jane is not the indomitable and beautiful Clarissa, and Tavington does not believe he is anything like Lovelace.

**Next—Chapter 9: "My Dear Jane—" **


	9. My Dear Jane,

_Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't sue._

**Chapter 9: "My Dear Jane—"**

With the sunrise, Ashbury Rutledge found himself once more the undisputed master of Cedar Hill, and his hand lay heavy on those who had incurred his displeasure.

Letty awakened early. Her sleep had been restless: filled with disturbances and terrible dreams. From her little bed in Jane's dressing room, she had heard everything that had passed between her mistress and the Colonel. That itself had been a nightmare, the terrible kind that freezes one helpless while the worst happens. She had heard Miss Jane crying and pleading, she had heard the sounds of the Colonel taking her. Letty knew all those sounds, from her earliest youth. Miss Jane might be a rich white lady, but in the end men used women the same way, high or low, rich or poor, black or white.

She dozed off after Miss Jane had stopped crying. There had been some noises later, and she heard the Colonel talking. She did not dare leave her bed until he was gone. She slept a little more. With first light, she crept out the closet, out of Miss Jane's room when she saw she was sleeping, and run upstairs to tell her mother the bad news.

Biddy was asleep in the little bed in the nursery, her hair over her shoulder in one grizzled braid. She rubbed her eyes, and motioned Letty to come with her out into the hall to tell her everything.

"Let her sleep herself out, baby, and then we'll go take care of her," she said, after the story was over and she could hold Letty tightly.

Jane, lying sore and wretched in her curtained bed, awakened to her father's familiar heavy tread and the loud voice shouting commands. She had never felt less desire to get up. Around eight, Letty came in, and to her surprise so did Biddy, talking in soft, kind voices.

"Are you awake, Miss Jane?"

"Yes, I'm just lying here resting."

The curtains were pushed quietly aside and her servants came to have a look at her, seeming a little anxious. Jane tried to smile at Biddy, but a painful thickness caught in her throat, and she suddenly burst into tears. Instantly, she was swept up in a warm embrace, while Letty sat on the other side of the bed, stroking her back.

"Oh, Biddy, it was so awful!"

"Never you mind, honey. He's gone now, and he won't be back for a long time. Let's get you dressed, and then you'll feel better."

Like a child, she allowed the two of them to change her out of her rumpled nightgown. Letty stripped the soiled sheets off the bed, while Biddy showed her how to clean herself more thoroughly, tutting over her bruises. Jane's face burned as she remembered that parts of the night had not been unpleasant. He had kissed her softly, not once but many times, and he had kissed her cheek very gently after he had finished that dreadful _consummation_ business. It was impossibly confusing—at one moment he was handsome and tender, and the next he was like a stallion when the mares came into season. _That_ part had been frightful.

"Why didn't you talk to me, honey?" Biddy asked her. "I could have told you everything that would happen and you wouldn't have been so scared of him." She gave Jane a severe, loving tilt of her head as she dampened the cloth again.

"I didn't think," Jane admitted, shamefaced. "I should have." She sniffed, and said, "It smells strange."

"That there's his seed, honey."

"Really?" Despite her anger and discomfort, Jane was curious. "Really?" she repeated. "I had heard about men having seed, but I thought it would be like—well—like _seeds."_

Biddy stifled a chuckle and gave her shoulder a squeeze. Jane got up and kissed her cheek, clutching the warm feather-bed softness of her nurse close to her.

"I got to go, honey. I got to see to Little Ash."

Jane sighed, resenting her brother. She slumped listlessly while Letty brushed her hair out, and then shook her head when Letty suggested the curling iron or the box of paints. Instead, she piled her hair under a plain, clean cap. She would not bother with vanities. They had contributed to last night's disaster. And besides, she needed to see what was going on. Her father was still shouting, his voice mixed with others, and as soon as she went downstairs for breakfast, she found out what had happened.

Before the tall clock in the entry hall chimed ten, Miss Gilpin had been summarily sacked. She was told that his carriage would take her to Charlestown in three hours—it did not matter to him where. She was henceforth no concern of his. She went upstairs to pack in tears, not knowing where she would lay her head that night.

Jane was furious at this piece of injustice. She ran upstairs again, ignoring her father's summons until she had had a moment with her former governess. She had her tin box in her hands, and slipped into Miss Gilpin's room and closed the door.

They embraced, sobbing. Miss Gilpin was ashamed of yielding to despair, and in a moment had wiped her face and said bravely, "My dear Jane, this is a heavy blow to be sure, but we must bear it. I will go home to England. I am sorry to leave you, but I know I will be happy with my brother…"

"And you will write to me? I must know that you are safe!"

"Of course—of course, my dear Jane. I must simply find a place to stay until I can find a ship---"

"I shall write a letter to Cousin Mary. I'm sure she'll give you houseroom until then. Don't worry. You will have the letter to take with you today. Go to her house on. Bay Street and then send word by the coachman." Embarrassed, she took a breath and asked, "Did my father pay you any of your salary for the year?"

Miss Gilpin hesitated, embarrassed. "Well---no. I was not due my money, you know, until Michaelmas. It is clear he does not mean to pay me."

"I knew it!" Disgusted, Jane seethed with a universal dislike for all men of her acquaintance. "How _thrifty_ of him! Never mind, _I_ haven't forgotten you!"

She opened the tin box and began counting out her cherished hoard. "I want you to have this—No—" seeing Miss Gilpin's head shake—"you must, really must accept this! If Colonel Tavington—" the name was spoken with great bitterness—"had but kept his word we would still be living happily together, even in some army billet. He did not. I was a fool to pin my hopes on a man. I should have taken my future in my own hands."

Jane had lain awake half the night, thinking about how she could have managed it herself, and spared herself a painful and humiliating encounter with a brute who cared only for her money. It was all perfectly clear: she could have pled the excuse of a visit to her cousin in Charlestown. The visit would have stretched out over many months—everyone would have become accustomed to her absence before they understood that she meant never to return. She could have been happy staying with Mary Laurens, or with her great-aunt Eliza, or with the John Draytons. She could have spent years paying one visit after another, until her father would have forgotten her, and no thought of her returning to Cedar Hill would have occurred to him. What a fool she had been, to give herself to that man! He had treated as he would Selina, and Jane was not like her, would never be like her…

Miss Gilpin gasped, "My dear Jane! A thousand pounds! How can you spare this!"

"It's my money!" Jane blazed. "Every penny my own! It will break my heart if I cannot know you are provided for properly! And don't give it to charity! I want you to have this money, and live happily on it."

"Oh, Jane!"

"Put it in your purse at once, and don't tell a soul. Colonel Tavington knows about my twenty thousand pounds, but he doesn't know about anything else! If he asks what happened to my income for the past few years, I'll tell him I spent it all. How can he prove otherwise? Don't worry. I have more saved, and I'll be getting still more in June. If I have a thousand pounds myself, I'll be all right, no matter what happens to the rest!"

It was plain that something very unfortunate had happened between her former pupil and the Colonel. Miss Gilpin had expected as much, and sighed. Unable to resist the offer, she put the money away immediately and kissed Jane as her mother would have, had she lived.

Jane whispered, "I must go. Papa has sent for me. I hope he sends me away too, but that's unlikely." Pressing her friend's hand, she left the room, and went downstairs, bracing herself for the ugly scene that must follow.

It was even worse than she expected. She had known, without really knowing it, that her father was completely indifferent to her. Now, it seemed, he despised her: she had proved herself a fool, marrying a stranger without a legal settlement to protect her. Every shred a respect he might have had for her was gone. And even worse were his leering, vile questions. He actually asked if the pleasures of her marriage bed were worth twenty thousand pounds.

No, he was not going to send her away. That would inconvenience Selina. She would remain at Cedar Hill, as housekeeper. While he would permit her the great favor of taking her meals with the family, she would no longer be allowed the privilege of using the carriage, and she would keep to her room, the nursery, and the kitchen and other offices. Selina's widowed Aunt Alice would be joining them soon, to act as a _proper_ companion for her stepmother: to read to her, to listen to her, to be a part of the family as Jane no longer was. For as her father told her, "You are no longer a Rutledge, but a Tavington!"

She left the room feeling more bruised and soiled than ever. There was only one place to go. She ran upstairs to the nursery and cried for half an hour, her head in Biddy's lap.

Biddy's dress was of coarse fustian, a thin stripe of berry-red against a ground of dull gray. Jane studied it, her tears darkening it in patches, looking at the interwoven threads, as she sat exhausted on the floor. Her thoughts were a tangle, and she remembered so many things now, things she ought to have noticed and considered before making this wild bid for freedom that had failed so badly. At the inn yesterday, she had seen Harry Nettles, and felt ashamed of herself for not paying more attention to him the night of the ball.

Jane had always despised men who were duped by pretty faces. Too many times had she watched men lose their heads over Selina. Seeing only her beauty, they did not allow themselves to see the limited intelligence, the shallow spiteful nature that was just underneath the pearly skin and golden hair. But now, it seemed, Jane herself was no better. She had hardly noticed plain and unassuming Harry Nettles at the ball, and had instead thrown herself at the handsome, arrogant Tavington, a man who was practically a complete stranger. How different things could have been. There had been no reason for her to hurry. She could have used the wits she was so vain of, judging and thinking and _waiting_ until she found the right man to take her away from her family.

But there was no more time to wallow in grief. Coral entered the nursery with Little Ash in tow. He had just enjoyed a fine toddle outside the house, and demanded Jane's attention. He was too small to sympathize with her; and he was Selina's and her father's. A dark flicker of jealousy stirred in her: she ruthlessly suppressed it. He might be theirs, but he was not _them._ So she kissed him, and tickled him, and played for a little while, before leaving to write Miss Gilpin's essential letter.

-----

That day set the pattern for many succeeding ones. Jane felt like a ghost in her father's house. She took her meals in silence. In silence, her father ignored her presence, unless he had a direct command or complaint. Selina abused her without end. Only gentle little Aunt Alice Izard, soft as rice powder, addressed her civilly. Jane thought she would hate Miss Gilpin's supplanter, but she could not.

Alice Izard was a poor relation, and this lucky invitation of the Rutledges was a gift of God to her. Her luck and her obligation did not make her spiteful to Jane, however much that might have been anticipated. She knew that Jane's elopement, which was the talk of Charlestown, had deeply offended her father, and she pitied Jane for the outcome, even though she felt that Jane had been at fault. Sensibly, because she was dependent on Selina's good opinion of her, she did not try to make Jane her friend. She did, however, never insult Jane herself, or laugh when Selina taunted her. Aunt Alice had learned that in such situations--whether she herself or another was the target--it was best to appear too stupid to understand an insult. Selina grew accustomed to the mild, befuddled look on the older lady's face, and did not expect much assistance from her in tormenting Jane.

With the beginning of June, Rutledge decided to move his household to his house in Charlestown. Jane handled most of the arrangements, but welcomed the change. She had seen nobody but her family and their slaves since Tavington and Miss Gilpin had departed. Her little white room no longer seemed a sanctuary, but a place filled with distressing memories.

Once the immediate impression of her wedding night had faded a little, Jane thought more about how it had all begun, and began to dwell more on the fact that it was really all her stepmother's fault. Selina had put Tavington in Jane's head, and Selina's behavior was not helping put him out of it. Her dislike and contempt for Selina were growing by the day, and it was only a matter of time before matters came to a head.

----- 

"Another letter from your wife, Bordon?"

"Yes," the captain smiled with conscious pleasure. "She has so much to tell me about the children. Actually, I received two letters at once this time."

Tavington's smile turned faintly sour. He would never admit he envied Bordon, but he had once met the much-praised Harriet and had found her witty and charming: a keen observer of human nature, who had not been too afraid of him to poke gentle fun at some of his own foibles. He had been more aware, since meeting her, of how he could hide his social unease under a mask of haughty reserve. He had thought her attractive too, liking especially the bright, watchful eyes that always seemed filled with good-natured laughter. Bordon was a lucky man. At least _his_ wife was writing to him.

He had not heard a word from Jane since their wedding day—and night. Tavington had tried to conceal the truth from himself, but now acknowledged that perhaps Jane had not found the experience entirely satisfactory. It had all been too rushed—necessary, of course, to establish their bond and protect his interests, but really, considering the ceremony, and the lack of time to talk, and the consummation---he winced a little, recollecting his behavior---well, perhaps it was time to mend things. After all, he was a man and soldier, and not a timid young woman. He would write to her and try to smooth things over. Not that he needed to apologize----but yes, perhaps he _did_ need to apologize. An apology might please Jane greatly, whether he had done anything he need apologize for or not. He had won the battle, and could afford to be generous.

All in all, things were going well for him and his dragoons. The rebels were in disarray. At Waxhaws, they had fired at him under a flag of truce and he had broken and savaged them in revenge. Their collaborators and sympathizers were receiving rough justice for their crimes. Just today, he had tracked down some of the rebel wounded to a farmhouse that he had subsequently ordered burned. A young rebel had been captured as a spy and another had put up a fight and been shot for his pains. All things to fill him with righteous satisfaction. At the corners of his consciousness, he remembered the terrified face of a tiny golden-haired child. It was sad, really, what women and children faced because of the foolish choices of those who ought to protect them.

As he ought to be protecting Jane. Well, there was no help for it. Had he dragged her, a sheltered young lady, along with the army, she would have been in constant danger, not only from rebels, but from all the diseases that were dogging his men. A sip of bad water, and Jane Rutledge—Jane Tavington—would die an agonizing and ugly death, burning with fever, and bleeding from the flux. Whatever the rubs and acrimony within her family, she was physically safe there, to a degree he could not guarantee in an army camp.

Bordon was laughing over his letter. Tavington left him to it, and went to his tent, preparing pen and paper for one of his own. He thought it through silently, and then committed himself.

_June 6, 1780_

_My dear Jane,_

_I hope you and your family are well and safe. I am in good health and unwounded. We have been proceeding north for the past week and the rebels continue to fall back from us. We met Buford and his men at the Waxhaws. I do not know if you are acquainted with the man, but I cannot say that I was impressed. He declared his defiance in the most insolent terms, but then proceeded to show amazing incompetence. His men were overthrown, and then displayed a flag of truce. As Tarleton and I attempted a parley, we were treacherously fired upon, and Tarleton's horse was shot out from under him. I thought him dead (though I was mistaken—he is perfectly well, now) and our troops took a fierce revenge for the rebels' treachery. Buford, for all his fine words, fled away, leaving his men to face their fate without him. If things continue in this train, South Carolina will soon be pacified. Perhaps I shall be able to return to you in a few short months._

_My dear wife-- for so you are, though we were together as husband and wife only a matter of hours—I wish to apologize for anything you found amiss in my behavior to you. There was so little time that I fear I was impatient and unkind. Having had some time to reflect on this, I do understand that you might have found my conduct somewhat ungentlemanly. I wish you to understand that whatever I did, I did with good intentions. I wished to have our marriage put beyond your father's power to forbid or annul. This has been achieved, and after the war is over, we can make a fresh start. _

_Do not think me unaware of your unhappiness at home. The conduct of your father and stepmother must be indeed hard to bear. You deserve better. My dalliance with your stepmother I beg you to look upon as the thoughtless behavior of a man who has been too accustomed to such light women. You have my word of honor that any further infidelities with her are at an end. Nothing good can come of them, even if I still found her desirable. I do not. Her spiteful jealousy of you, above all, has made me feel a growing aversion for her company._

_Jane, I know you were bitterly disappointed to be left among such people. I had my reasons, which I will lay before you now at length. You have not seen the world as I have. I do not discount your unhappiness at Cedar Hill, but you are in no physical danger there. You cannot know the terrible things that I have seen in this war. You are an intelligent and competent young woman, but it is impossible that you could defend yourself against the sort of ruffians that prey on the helpless in a land chaotic with war and rebellion._

_You have heard, I believe, the story of what happened to Mrs. Giles, the former Lady Colleton, and her companions at Fair Lawn plantation, when those unhappy ladies were attacked one night by drunken dragoons . What you must keep in confidence, for the sake of the ladies involved, is that their sufferings were much greater than reported. Tarleton insisted the men be flogged, and to keep the matter as quiet as possible, I did not publicly oppose him. I still feel passionately, as Major Ferguson did, that the men ought to have been hanged. I have my eye on the villains, for having once transgressed as they did, they are bound to attempt some such outrage again._

_Perhaps you feel that nothing of the sort could happen to you. I pray that is so. However, as a philosopher once said, "Accept that anything that can happen, can happen to you." Your safety must be my first concern. Until I am in a position to provide you with my own protection, you must remain in your father's household._

_My friend Bordon has just received a letter from his wife, full of family news. I now realize, with some embarrassment, that I have never spoken to you of my own family, which is now yours as well. No, I will not bore you with tales of my esteemed uncle the Earl. In reality, though our townhouses are in the same square, we do not see the family often. I went to school with my cousin, Lord Sattersby, but though cousins, we have never been friendly._

_My father, as you no doubt have heard, is dead. My mother, Lady Cecily, lives with my elder brother, the present Sir John, and my sisters in her house at 12 Mortimer Square. It is quite a nice house, and was a gift to her from her father at her wedding. John is a good sort, but not very ambitious, for all he has a safe seat in Parliament. _

Here Tavington paused, not sure what more he could say about John. He had always rather liked his brother, despite his many faults, but he could not imagine the hard-working, energetic Jane having much in common with him. He turned to his sisters with more confidence.

_You will find my sisters the sweetest and gentlest of creatures, and they will no doubt prove good sisters to you, too. Caroline and Penelope are older than I, and unmarried. They, like you, are very fond of music, and live very pleasantly and quietly together._

_I also have a younger sister, Lucy, who is very dear to me. Lucy is married_

Tavington paused again. Thinking about Lucy and her marriage, in some ways very like his own, he wondered what his mother would say about it all.

_to a successful lawyer, Edward Protheroe. I regret that I could not see her married, for it all happened only two years ago, when I was already in America. She writes fairly frequently, especially to tell me about their child. Lucy did not marry young, and for that reason, everything seems the more precious to her. My nephew Ned is the joy of her life._

_My mother_

Not a pause, but a dead stop. Tavington felt the usual confusion of emotions when thinking of his mother. What could he say that Jane would like? Would it be enough that he _had _a mother, whom he could share with the motherless Jane?

_is a very cultured, refined woman, very devoted to her family. She never remarried after my father's death. _

What else could he say? His mother had been a great beauty, but that might not sound appealing to Jane, after living with Selina. His mother favored her sons over her daughters, and that was not very appealing either. She had a large circle of powerful gentlemen friends that she had used to obtain every possible advantage for her sons--

_She has worked tirelessly for my advancement._

In his mind's eye, he pictured Jane and his mother under the same roof, and shied away from the possibilities. Jane was his wife, and surely his mother would respect that. John was unlikely to marry. Surely Mamma must understand the need for the Tavington family to have an heir---

He decided that there was no profit in idle suppositions, and concentrated instead on his letter.

_My dear wife, I pray you put aside your disappointment and write to me. I truly wish to know how you are getting on. In one sense, your father's proposal of a courtship by correspondence was a sound one: it is the only way we are going to communicate with one another for some time. So, let us call this our courtship, and let it be a prosperous one._

_I am, Madam, your most devoted husband,_

_William Tavington_

_-----_

Jane did not receive Tavington's letter until late in the month. It had gone to Cedar Hill, and was only belatedly forwarded on to the house on Queen Street. She opened it with curiosity, not recognizing the handwriting. Then realizing who the author was, she stood unmoving for several minutes. Her first impulse was to crumple it and throw it down the privy. Her second, rational one, was to read it through.

She was too busy to do it justice at the moment. Instead, she stuffed it into her pocket, and went outside to the kitchen to oversee the work. Impulsively, she decided to join in by baking a cake. This took some time, but the activity soothed her. Daisy, the chief cook, and her children and assistants worked cheerfully about her. When the cake was taken from the oven, perfectly browned, she let young Nancy sprinkle it with sugar while she went back to house to attend to her letter.

Jane was much happier in Charlestown. Her father's prohibition about the carriage hardly mattered here: she could walk to her relatives and to church; she could visit the shops; she could look out at the harbor, feeling the call of distant places; she could see her lawyer and tend to her financial affairs. And it was impossible for Selina to keep her out of the parlor entirely: Selina's relatives were Jane's, and they were there to chat with both of them. Remarks were sometimes made, but the scandal was dying down, obscured by exciting news of the war.

The town house was somewhat smaller than Cedar Hill. It had been closed down, and then had been inhabited by some careless billeted soldiers, but now the Rutledges had it to themselves again, due to Sir Henry's general benevolence before he left for New York. Considering that it could be called Colonel Tavington's residence, he felt it excessive to burden the family with other officers. Rutledge was pleased; not wanting further intrusions. Selina was feeling too ill to care at the moment.

For it became apparent during their move to Charlestown that Selina was with child.

Jane felt only disgust at her father's exultation, knowing that the child might not even be his. Selina, between bouts of nausea, would lift her head, glaring triumphantly at Jane. Jane had carefully kept her temper these first few weeks, but sometimes wished to slap her stepmother's face. Jane had wondered if she herself might have a baby—after all, that was point, she supposed, of the unpleasant and incomprehensible things her husband had done to her. She had begun listening to her body, alert to any of the changes that Biddy had gently explained to her. The idea even had a certain appeal. A child of her own would be hers: a little person to love and to teach, and who would love her. But of the changes, there was no sign, and Jane was somewhat disappointed, in a way she did not fully understand. She was glad enough not to feel as ill as Selina obviously did. And she could not helping feeling that Selina's discomfort was richly deserved.

And always, always, she was told the same cruel things: that Tavington had married her for her money; that he would take her money and leave without her; that she would be a pauper and a poor relation to the end of her days; that she did not deserve the kindness of her family.

Some of these things she had come to believe; others she had good reason to know were false. She was not going to be a helpless dependent: her little nest egg would see her safe. Having a little money of her own helped her through one of Selina's pettiest punishments.

Since she was not really supposed to be in the parlor, Selina pointed out she had no right to play the instrument there, which belonged to "the family." Jane had gotten up, given her stepmother a long, deliberate look, and had taken her time gathering up all the music that belonged to her. This she carried upstairs, leaving only a few scattered sheets that had been Selina's before her marriage had allowed her to stop playing. Aunt Alice owned the rest, which Jane left untouched.

The lack of an instrument could be remedied. Jane took a stroll out to the shops, and within a few days, a little bent-side spinet was delivered to the house on Queen Street, a tiny triangular harpsichord that fit cozily into a corner of Jane's bedchamber upstairs. Her room in town was very different from her chamber at Cedar Hill. Her townhouse bedchamber was large and square, and painted a pleasant green. A plaited rag rug softened the floor. Her bed was dressed in celery-green muslin, with a pattern of vine leaves. At the foot of her own large bed was the little narrow one where Letty slept when they were in town. All in all, with her books, and her little writing desk, and her new instrument and Letty for companionship, Jane felt the change to town was a very agreeable one. The lack of Miss Gilpin was still painful, but there was no cure for that; and now, considering the hatefulness of her relations, she could only feel that Miss Gilpin was better off on that ship to England, escaping the war and reuniting with her brother.

And now she had a letter from a man she had been told she would never hear from again. She sat down at the writing table by the window, and smoothed the crumpled pages carefully.

_"My dear Jane…"_

It took three tries to get through the letter. The first paragraph, full of dull army news, she shrugged at. How could he imagine she was interested? But then he spoke of more personal, compelling issues. She was bewildered that he was writing to her, that he was _apologizing, _that he wished her to know things about himself, and above all, that he wished her to respond. He certainly was not writing like a man who intended to take her money and abandon her. What was he playing at?

He spoke so fondly of his sisters, and so seriously of the dangers of the war to women. Jane shook her head at his warning. He did not know her well enough to understand that she could take care of herself. Perhaps that was not his fault, entirely. They had known each other too short a time.

Much of the letter she did not understand. He spoke of his family living in Mortimer Square. Probably that was in London, though he did not say so. Very many things were plain to him, but not so plain to someone who did not know England. His sister Lucy was married, but he did not say where she was. Perhaps he thought Jane should understand it all, but she did not.

Well, maybe that was for the best. If she _did_ choose to write him—_if_ she felt she could honorably accept his apology for his _very_ ungentlemanlike conduct-- she could ask him to make it all clear. Yes—that was good—she would have something to say. She could request more details about his family, more descriptions.

But _could_ she write to such a man? A memory of darkness, of a suffocating weight and powerful hands holding her helpless, of a tearing, stabbing pain made her shiver. _No wonder men make women swear such terrible oaths to obey them!_ The pages fluttered in response, and one dropped to the floor. She pushed a stray hair from her face before she bent to pick it up. She looked at the page again.

He expressed true contrition for the adultery, and promised it was over. Jane was not quite so sheltered as her husband imagined. She knew that men took their pleasure where they found it, willingly or unwillingly, from slave or free. He had simply indulged himself: Selina had broken her marriage vows. At least Jane would not have to see such conduct again. Her lips twitched in satisfaction: _How disappointing for Selina. Too bad._ Then she considered that Selina might be carrying Tavington's child, and her smile faded. She bit her lip and looked at the rest of the letter.

Like a typical gossiping man, he told her details of the ladies who were attacked in April. It did help Jane understand his fixed idea that she should be safe—it somewhat excused his betrayal of her fondest hopes, but she wished he had not written it. It was hideous to imagine the poor women—women she knew-- suffering worse treatment than she had. And if it were known that the ladies had suffered ravishment, they would be ruined, no matter how innocent they were. Jane vowed that _she_ would not spread the news.

Carefully, she folded the letter, and locked it in her desk. She must read it again tonight, and think it over. Perhaps it might be possible to reply to the letter. They were inescapably married before God, and if Tavington were sincere in his repentance, Jane must be a Christian and forgive him. Perhaps it _might_ be possible…

------

**Note:** Mortimer Square is fictional. I have based it on Berkeley Square in the Mayfair section of London, as it was in the 18th century. The southwest side of the square is occupied by Lansdowne House, at one time home to William Petty, 2nd Earl of Shelburne, later 1st Marquess of Lansdowne.

**Next—Chapter 10: Exchanging Olive Branches  
**


	10. Exchanging Olive Branches

_Disclaimer: No, for the zillionth time, I don't own it._

**Chapter 10: Exchanging Olive Branches**

The first difficulty in writing her husband, Jane found, was deciding how in the world to _address_ him.

_"My dear husband—"_

She flinched. The words implied an intimate footing that was laughably far from reality.

_"My dear William—"_

Oh dear. She could hardly manage to write the name without squirming with embarrassment. And after all, how would she address him in person? Selina called her father "Mr. Rutledge" in public…

Taking a deep breath, she wrote:

_June 25, 1780_

_My dear Colonel Tavington,_

_Your letter was delayed somewhat, as we have all removed to the house in Charlestown. Any correspondence in future should be directed to the Queen Street house, which I believe I heard my father tell you about._

_I am quite well, and am gratified to hear that you are unhurt._

Jane felt hopeless. Everything sounded so stilted and unnatural. She sighed. All she could do was her best. She decided to give him her news.

_Selina is expecting a child in January, and my father is overjoyed. She is a little unwell, which does nothing for her temper._

_Miss Gilpin was dismissed the day you left. She has returned to England, and I hope to hear from her eventually. Selina's Aunt Alice is her companion now, and is very inferior to Miss Gilpin in sense and accomplishments. She seems very stupid, but is not unkind to me._

_As to your apology: I feel obliged to accept it, but I pray that our—_

Oh God, how to say it? Encounters? Relations? Intercourse? She shuddered, and scratched out the words.

_I must confess to you that you truly frightened me. It was very distressing and painful and I beg you never to use me with such violence ever again._

There. It was said. However clumsily, she had said what she meant, and what she needed to say. Let him make of it what he would. Now she would try to be more accommodating.

_I liked hearing about your family. Your sisters sound very amiable. I have always longed for a sister. Forgive my ignorance, but is Mortimer Square in London? I thought it must be, but you did not say definitely. Where does your sister Mrs. Protheroe live? I hope she is not at a great distance from the rest of her family. That would be very disagreeable._

_Where did you go to school? My father went to Harrow, but since you did not speak of it, I assume you went elsewhere, for I have discovered that when men have gone to the same school they always go on and on about the "dear old place," and sit over their wine talking about ball games. Many of my uncles and cousins have also gone to school in England. That is, my male cousins. It seems that women hardly ever get to go anywhere nice._

_It was good of you to explain your reasons for leaving me with Papa and Selina. I admit I felt very ill used. Indeed, I _am _very ill used by them. However, I must submit to your greater knowledge of the world and the war, and hope for better times. I am sure you are doing your duty in fighting and defeating the rebels, but as a woman with relations on both sides of the conflict, I wish that sensible men could come together and resolve their differences without violence. _

_Perhaps you will smile in a condescending way at that, but indeed I am sorry to hear of anyone suffering because they disagree about politics. It seems so pointless. I cannot understand the Pinckneys especially, putting everyone to such inconvenience. They have always been very selfish. _

_Papa sold his rice at a great profit, which pleased him very much. It has, I think, improved his opinion of you. Nothing, it seems, will improve his opinion of me. However, I see little of him, other than at meals and when I submit the household accounts to him. _

Should she tell him about the spinet? It was the nicest thing to come out of her rift with her family, and she played it and thought of it with constant pleasure, but it might seem a trifle to him. Worse, it would let him know that she had money of her own and was spending it, and that might give him other ideas.

No. She would not tell him about it, or about the money she had given Miss Gilpin. It was none of his business what she did with her own money. If he returned, she would never again have this kind of freedom, and she wanted to enjoy it undisturbed as long as possible.

_I am happy that we removed to Charlestown. My other relations are not so unforgiving, and there is much to see and do here, with all the rebuilding and repair in town. Little Ash plays in the garden and is learning to talk. He calls me "Shane," which makes me thrill with happiness._

She blushed at admitting so much in such sentimental language. She crossed out the phrase.

_which makes me laugh. He can say "Biddy," and calls his nurse Coral, "Cawa." He does not yet say "Mama" or "Papa," which also makes me laugh. They are not about enough for him to hear the words frequently enough._

He could not care about Little Ash. Why would he? She crossed out the sentences, and left.

_which makes me laugh._

_I hope and pray for your safety, out in the wilderness amongst many enemies. May you have the victory you desire._

She would say nothing about a "safe return." That might seem pitiful—as if she were begging him to come back to her. It was not perfectly truthful as well, for he must know that she had reservations about any return of his. Not wishing him dead was one thing: wanting a repeat of their wedding night was another.

_I am, sir, in all obedience, your wife,_

_Jane Tavington_

She had never, since her wedding day, signed her married name. It gave an air of finality to her situation. She reached into her jewelry box and found the huge gold ring he had given her. Perhaps a symbol of their union might help reconcile her.

----

No, the goldsmith told her, he could not alter the ring to fit her. Or rather he could, but—

"You see the design here, ma'am. Very fine work. If I cut out part of the gold, the pattern would be spoiled. A shame to destroy such a pretty piece of craftsmanship."

"I suppose you are right." What was she to do with the monstrous thing? _I suppose I could put it on a chain, and wear it about my neck, but that's hardly—_ She looked at the items on display in the little glass case. "Would one of those rings fit me, do you suppose?"

Obligingly, the goldsmith pulled out a few plain gold bands. Jane tried them on, one after another, and found a small, thin one that would serve her purpose.

"I'll take that one. No, I'll just wear it."

Ignoring the goldsmith's heavy brows lifted in surprise, Jane paid him and left the shop, the little ring clasping her finger with a strangely intimate sensation. _I suppose it does make me feel more married._ She walked through the streets, past the impudent, strident calls of the market women, wondering if the whole world could see that she was a _married woman_. She felt terribly conspicuous.

She slipped into the house, hoping that no one had even noticed her absence. Papa had gone out, thankfully, and Selina was not generally up at such an early hour.

Today, unfortunately, she was; and was just coming down the stairs as Jane started up them.

"Where have you been?"

"Out."

"Out—where? Entertaining more soldiers in taverns?"

Jane ignored her and tried to pass. Selina's hand caught her skirt, tugging sharply. "Answer me when I'm speaking to you. You're only here on sufferance, and you should be grateful. Nobody else would have you, after what you've done. And nobody else would want you—certainly not your _husband!"_

A dark spark of fury kindled swift. Perhaps it was the support of her little gold wedding band. It mattered not a bit that she had bought it herself. Feelings long simmering rose to the inevitable boil.

Jane took a deep, ragged breath, and forced herself to speak quietly.

"You know, Selina, you're a very stupid woman." Her stepmother recoiled in outrage, but Jane pressed on, her words slipping between her teeth like knives. "You really should try not to make me angry. If I were _really_ angry, I might say some things that would do us _all_ great harm. I've tried to keep them quiet, because innocent people would be harmed along with _you—"_ Here she looked over her shoulder at Selina with a rage that her stepmother had never seen, and that quite silenced her.

It had never occurred to Selina, that after so long she was not perfectly safe. No one but her own loyal Phyllis knew she had had a lover. But now Jane was looking at her with a cold comprehension that pierced her conscience. _No—she cannot know. No one does. No one who matters._

But it grew more and more horrifyingly apparent that she did, for Jane was still speaking to her in that dreadful soft voice. "If you were to make me _really_ angry, I might lose all self-control and start shouting. I might shout out all I know in front of Papa. What would happen, do you think, if I were to lose my temper and tell him all about his wife and my husband, and how they betrayed him under his own roof?"

Selina's heart stopped. _Oh, Lord, he _told _her! How _could _he?_ _Heartless, wretched man!_ The shocking pain of his betrayal made her tongue stick to the roof of her mouth. She could hardly manage to say, "He wouldn't believe you."

"Perhaps not." Jane nodded with a strange smile. "But he'd never look at you the same way again." Her smile stretched out. Selina thought her greenish rabbity eyes looked scarcely human. "And he'd certainly look hard at _his child_ once it's born. I hope its hair isn't dark. That would just about be the end of you."

A bluff might work. "You don't know anything. You can't prove anything."

Jane's eyes narrowed. She whimpered, in a false, far-away moan, _"'Ah, Colonel! I shall die!'" _

Selina's eyes strained wide at the words: whites showing all around the flower-blue irises. Her dropped jaw worked like a landed fish. This tacit admission of guilt fueled Jane's anger. "I saw you myself, you slut. I can describe every last thing you said and did while—_entertaining_—the Colonel." Her teeth showed white in a feral smile, thinking of Tavington's letter admitting their guilt. "And I have proof. I have it in writing, in a place where you'll never find it. If you push me Selina, if you push me, and torment me, and sneer, I won't be able to stop myself. Everything will come out, and you will be ruined. If Papa doesn't kill you, you'll be lucky. What _do_ you think he'd do?"

Selina began shaking. Ashbury was often angry, and did terrible things when he was angry, but his anger had never been directed at her. Hate and fear twisted her pretty face into a grimacing mask. "What do you want?"

Jane swallowed her contempt. "I want you to leave me alone. That's all I ask. Stop your insults, and don't dream of threatening me or mine. If I find you've done anything to hurt Biddy or Letty, you'll regret it. If you try to keep me away from Little Ash, you'll regret it. Just stop your taunts and leave me alone. If you can manage that, I'll say nothing of your disgusting adulteries and vices. Just leave me alone and you'll be safe." Another breath hissed through her teeth, and she headed upstairs to her room.

Black spots swam before Selina's eyes. She sat down abruptly on the stairs, beyond tears or screams. Inside her was a deep shaking that could not stop. She was too frightened to move, too frightened to do anything. In a few minutes, Aunt Alice came downstairs and found her there. She tenderly helped her upstairs where Selina collapsed again, vomiting into the chamberpot, while Aunt Alice held her hair back, and then pressed a cool damp cloth to her aching head.

-----

Jane herself was shaking when she reached her room. She was so concentrated on her quarrel with Selina that she hardly noticed the sweet, hesitant twanging of someone picking out a tune on her little spinet. Then she looked again.

"Letty! What are you doing?"

Letty jumped up from the chair, looking guilty. "I just wanted to see your instrument, Miss Jane. I didn't hurt it!"

"No, of course you didn't." Jane looked at her, puzzled, still in a tumult of suppressed rage. Letty did not deserve to be scolded. "There's no harm in your looking."

"It's just—it's so pretty, and I wanted to see if I could play a song myself." Letty gaze dropped to the floor, and her hands twisted in the folds of her homespun petticoat.

Glad to think of something new, Jane tried to take in the idea of her maid wanting to play the spinet. It was so unexpected. There were plenty of slave musicians. Their own had provided the music at the Cedar Hill ball, but to play the spinet like a young lady---

Letty was looking worried, and Jane tried to think the matter through. Of course, a slave could not play the instrument in the parlor. That would be very improper, and indeed it could not be, but really, was there any harm in Letty playing the little spinet in Jane's room, where it was just the two of them?

Actually, it was much the same as Letty having learned to read and write. She had had no lessons herself, as such, for it was illegal to teach slaves their letters, but she had been nearby when Miss Gilpin had taught Jane, and had overheard the lessons; and Jane had often amused herself when the two of them were little, by playing teacher and having Letty play the part of pupil. Perhaps she could look at this the same way. And besides, she was so lonely since Miss Gilpin had gone…

"Would you like to learn to play? Really play?"

"I—" Gathering her courage, Letty confessed, "Oh, Miss Jane, I _love_ music! I always wished I could play like you. I could play on the spinet when you weren't here, and I wouldn't bother you—"

"No—I mean—_I_ could teach you. It could be very diverting. Would you really like to learn to play it properly?" She was already moving eagerly toward the spinet, pulling the chair in front of her dressing table over to join the one already set before it. Letty was smiling; and without much more ceremony, was hustled back into her place before the keyboard, and her first formal music lesson commenced.

Jane was having a wonderful time. She found her yellowed book of exercises, and had Letty start with the simplest of them. While she practiced, Jane moved about the room restlessly, feeling a mean triumph when she heard the distant noises of Selina being sick, and the soft murmuring as Aunt Alice comforted her. Perhaps someday she would be able to be more charitable, but for now, she pushed Selina's well-deserved comeuppance from her mind and poked through her jewelry box again, looking for a long, thin chain of fine gold that she knew was there.

It had to be untangled first, and then Jane slipped the heavy gold ring Tavington had given her onto it. It was quickly fastened, and over her head in a trice. The chain was quite long, and the ring was hidden under her bodice. Jane decided that was exactly the way she wanted it, and returned to Letty's instruction, feeling happier than she had in months. Her next task, she decided, would be to unpick all the monograms on her handkerchiefs, and change every "R" to a "T."

-----

Her cousin admired both her rings. Jane visited Mary Laurens every few days, glad of a place to sit that did involve conflict. Her cousin was a crystal-haired widow of fifty-five years, and had become a good friend since Jane had grown up.

"Never cared for children," she often and blithely declared. "Possibly had I any of my own I might have felt differently, but as it was--"

The exquisite parlor would not have welcomed rampaging youngsters. Jane considered it the prettiest room in Charlestown.

"Of course, my dear," her cousin said, in her soft, soft drawl, "you are greatly to blame, running off with a stranger, and not consulting with your _true_ friends." She lifted a brow in a way that may Jane fidget. Then she smiled. "But if it discomfits Ashbury I'm entirely satisfied. Never liked him. That's another reason I paid you so little attention when you were growing up. It was quite bad enough enduring Selina's visits. My Dresden figurines were never quite the same."

Jane looked away, repressing a smile. As a little girl Selina had, very disobediently, taken down Cousin Mary's prized figurines to play with, and one had been chipped. Mary Laurens had never forgiven her, and in fact had given Selina the chipped figurine as a wedding present. It was a hobbyhorse the older woman had, and she raised it during every single conversation in which Selina was mentioned. Jane, luckily, had been too intimidated by the lovely little statuettes to do anything but stare longingly. She still liked to look at them, forever young, pink, and dainty.

"Colonel Tavington has written me quite a nice letter," Jane said. "He had such interesting things to tell me of his family and home in England."

"Is that so? So Selina and Ashbury huffing and puffing about you being deserted is just so much hogwash?"

"I _think _so. I can't see him going to so much trouble if meant to abandon me. And as he said--" She blushed at the truth of it, "---we know each other so little that we need to correspond simply to become properly acquainted."

"Very sensible of him. Have you replied?"

"Yes--yes, I have. Our marriage was all so rushed... We did not part on good terms. He agrees that we should make a fresh start when next we meet."

"Hmm." Mary Laurens said nothing more. She had been briefly married to a cousin, long ago, and had not found the experience to her taste. Widowhood, on the other hand, was a delightful condition: above all, prosperous, independent widowhood. If this horrid Englishman who had trapped Jane were to perish in the war, Jane would be a widow herself, and free. In that case, perhaps she would consider coming to live here on Bay Street. The house was large, and dear Jane was so respectful of other peoples' treasures...

-----

They were in Winnsboro when Tavington received his wife's letter. He had had a difficult day. His relationship with his new commander, Lord Cornwallis, was not as amiable as the one he had enjoyed with Sir Henry Clinton. Cornwallis lost no chance to snipe at him, and to express his dissatisfaction with Tavington's methods. Tavington thought the man overly soft with the rebels, and had little confidence in his judgement.

_And why, if he so despises my efforts, does he not have me replaced?_ Tavington considered the matter, and decided that Cornwallis was attempting to play a subtle game with the Colonials, forcing Tavington to seem the menacing threat, while Cornwallis himself could keep his own hands clean and play the role of the humane representative of the Crown, ignorant of Tavington's "cruelties" ---posing as the one whom the Colonials could rely on to protect them and uphold their rights. A double-dyed hypocrisy, for Cornwallis knew perfectly well what Tavington was doing, and yet did not actually order him to alter his tactics.

Their families had been rivals for a long time. Cornwallis' own father had had some shady business dealings with the old, deceased Earl of Colchester, Tavington's grandfather. And Mad Jack had done his worst here: a blazing scandal that had destroyed the reputation of one of Cornwallis' aunts. Parliament had been awhirl with the divorce case, and both families had been dirtied with the mud flung by all parties concerned. It seemed ridiculous to Tavington, though, to carry on with the feud here in America. Impolitic, too. But alas, he was not an Earl himself, but his enemy's subordinate, and now—so it seemed—his whipping boy.

Rebels did not confront Tavington and his men on the field of battle, but buzzed about them like the monstrous mosquitoes that tortured him daily. Tavington hated both rebels and mosquitoes with a fierce, burning hatred; but so far, he had had better luck with the rebels.

Looking out the tent flap, he inspected the encampment, tidily organized. From a small white tent down the line, he heard the expected moans. Blethers was being tended to by the surgeon. Since his outrageous conduct at Tavington's wedding he had found his life changed—very much for the worse. No longer was he allowed the excuse of drunkeness. Whenever Tavington rode out, Mr. Blethers was required to ride out as well: long, arduous patrols, too long for any secret store of liquor to sustain him. He had been lanky, but was now skeletal: his hands shook, and occasionally he had to be tied to his mount. Tavington had ignored his chaplain's failings too long, but no more. Blethers would do his duty to the regiment if it killed him.

A bellow distracted him. It was Moll Royston, the chief laundress, taking her women to task for laziness. _If only I could make that woman a sergeant: we'd massacre the rebels within the month. _She was a big, beefy woman—bigger than many of the men, and a widow. She really ought to find a new man and remarry, but the quartermaster—and Tavington—thought her too useful to badger her about it.

"Put your back into it, Missy! And you, Bess! I told you to unpick the seams before washing that shirt. You'll never get the blood out that way, you lazy trull! No—let me do it! Not you, Mrs. McArdle, you need to feed that boy of yours."

Tavington grinned, listening to the women. Moll had a fierce bite, and brooked no nonsense, but was kind enough to mothers and the crowd of little ones following the regiment. He had heard she had only had the one child, who died at birth, and never another. _At least it hasn't made her bitter._ The laundresses' noise died down, and he considered the changes in his regiment over the past few weeks.

Tavington had a new captain now, James Wilkins, a huge Carolinian. The man knew the Rutledges, and even claimed distant kinship with them in some convoluted way that only a fellow Carolinian could comprehend. Tavington had watched him narrowly, alert for any aspersions about his wife, but Wilkins had been perfectly polite. That did not make Tavington like him any better. His time in South Carolina had filled him with a growing dislike for these Colonials and all their ways. Curiously, the dislike did not extend to Jane personally. She had, after all, chosen not be one of them any longer. She was not a Colonial now, so much as she was _his wife._

And now she had responded to him. He had felt some alarm at the delay, but the move to Charlestown explained that sufficiently.

The letter, itself, was rather uncomfortable to read. Jane was attempting to make the best of her situation, after a fashion, while making her unhappiness clear. He twitched impatiently at her complaints, but they were honest grievances. It must be most embarrassing to share a house with a stepmother whom she suspected of carrying Tavington's child. And poor Miss Gilpin had been dismissed. No doubt that was a sad thing for Jane, though Tavington had not particularly liked the woman, who was no friend to him.

The one sentence that stood out painfully, like the moving finger writing on the wall, was: "_I must confess to you that you truly frightened me. It was very distressing and painful and I beg you never to use me with such violence ever again."_

The writing there was nearly a scrawl, not his wife's usual fine hand. It had obviously been written in the grip of some strong emotion. Tavington sighed, knowing he would have his work before him, when reunited with Jane. Her initiation into married life had not been propitious. He wanted a decent domestic life, and he certainly wanted children. Jane must be somehow placated before that would be possible. It would take time, though, and that was something he had little enough of at the moment.

But the girl was trying to be civil, he saw, in the awkward remarks about his family. Caro and Pen would get on well with her, he believed. Lucy, if ever they had a chance to become acquainted, would be her delightful, affectionate self. Since those were the people in whom Jane had expressed interest (which indicated her good taste, in his opinion), he would tell her more about them, and about their childhood together in the sprawling gardens of Wargrave Hall….

For a moment, he thought he could smell the fresh scent of the hedge behind the west Pudding House, the place that had been the Tavington children's green hideaway from the world. He shut his eyes, and imagined the cool leaves sheltering them all as they whispered their childish secrets and hopes. How few had been realized.

A mosquito in his ear ruined the moment. He slapped at it resentfully, hating this place. He had always wanted to be a soldier, and he still wanted to be a soldier. He just did not want to be a soldier _here…_

Then he laughed at Jane's remarks about school and nostalgia over ball games. Only too true. The girl had some shreds of wit. Something might be made of them someday, in a more civilized place. Then there was the complaint about girls never going anywhere "nice." Another fling at her situation, no doubt. If they both lived, she would be going to England. He did not know if she would call it "nice," but it was the only place in world that truly mattered to him. He was not sure what sort of place she _would _think "nice." He could write and ask her—writing soon would be best. She had tentatively extended an olive branch, and it would be foolish not to reciprocate.

There was only a little more, about her unhappiness and the unpleasant behavior of her father and stepmother—and her father's success with his rice. Tavington's lip curled, thinking of Ashbury Rutledge. The man was hardly a gentleman in Tavington's opinion. He had the soul of a grubbing tradesman, and had not kept his word to Tavington, if he was mistreating Jane. She was certainly the best of a bad lot in _that_ family. Her political remarks, while naïve, were honest and not far from his own views. The Colonials were fools to fight over such trifles, and deserved everything they got. It certainly made things easier, knowing that he and his wife had no deep philosophical gulf dividing them. That would count for much, in time.

He had reflected on his too-speedy marriage, but did not repent of it. The matter of the money was still as powerful a reason for their wedding as ever, and the thought being married to a woman who would not have a family trailing after her like unwanted baggage was rather pleasant. Once in England, they need never hear of Ashbury Rutledge, the Rice King, again. The man might be somebody in this backwater, but he would be less than nothing at home. Jane and he could have a life together that would be theirs alone.

_Except,_ he admitted, with a little niggling twinge of conscience, _for _my own _family, which may be a matter of some concern…_

----- 

**Note:** A pudding house, in architecture of the Tudor-Stuart period, is a garden house, where dessert would be served. Not a gazebo—it's much more substantial—more like a very elegant, one room house of stone.

**Next—Chapter 11: Courtship by Correspondence**


	11. Courtship by Correspondence

_Disclaimer: No, I don't own it. I'm just playing with it._

**Chapter 11: Courtship by Correspondence**

That summer in Charlestown was unlike any of Jane's life. The town, filled to the brim with soldiers, with sailors, and with all the strange folk who followed in their train, had never been so bustling, so full of raw life. And among these strange folk were hundreds of runaway slaves. The British Army was freeing the slaves of rebels, and slaves who claimed to belong to rebels. The South Carolina patriots were indignant at this attack on their property rights, and were attracting many to their side who had stayed neutral before. And how, in all the confusions, was one to tell a freedman from a slave? The market women hawked their wares with shouts and wild gestures, grown bolder with the possibility of freedom. As Jane passed down Broad Street, these women no longer hurried out of Jane's way, faces humbly averted. Some looked her brazenly in the eye, unwilling to grant that her right to tread the walks was greater than theirs. It was quite disconcerting.

Jane never went anywhere without Letty anymore. Men in red coats, men in green coats, men in any sort of coat, men without coats at all—in coarse riflemen's frocks or bare shirtsleeves--would bow and smile and boldly ask her how she fared. And they did the same with Letty.

Another man was coming toward them, as they made their way to the milliner. A tall man in a blue coat, this time. _An artilleryman,_ Jane remembered. The uniform was well cut, and the man's wig well made. He was quite good-looking. Jane was embarrassed to be so stared at. As he passed, the officer bowed low to them.

"Ladies."

Jane gasped, and behind her Letty gasped as well. Jane gave the man a timid nod and trotted faster. The man had not seen that Letty was only a slave! What odd people the English were.

True, Letty was dressed nicely, in a cast-off of Jane's, a sprigged cotton gown that she had made over to fit her to a nicety and that became her well. She had trimmed her pert straw hat with a bit of blue ribbon. Jane knew that Letty should not be dressed thus. It was quite illegal: quite against the regulations of the Slave Code. There were only certain coarse materials that slaves were permitted to wear. But Letty was _different_. She was not like the other slaves, not like those wicked slaves Jane had heard of, who would cause trouble if not treated harshly. Jane loved Letty dearly, and it was a pleasure to give her nice clothing. But it was all very puzzling.

_Of course, Letty is not dark._ Some people might just think her a little tanned by the summer sun. She stole a quick glance at her maid as they entered the shop. It occurred to her that perhaps someone who did not know Letty's parentage might actually think her white. Her skin was not as pale as Jane's, but not as dark as many ladies of Spanish or French descent. Her nose was high-bridged and thin, like Biddy's, a legacy of Biddy's Cherokee mother. And Letty was _very_ pretty, but pretty in a pleasant way; a way that made Jane comfortable to look at her; not like Selina---no, not at all…

There were many finely dressed women in town now: strangers to Jane and to anyone of her acquaintance. Some were wives of officers, but some were loose, wanton women, striking up conversations with strange men and offering themselves to any who pleased them. One of them now leaned out of an upstairs window and called out to a gentleman in the street. It was very shocking. Unfortunately, Jane thought, it was impossible to tell a good woman from a bad one. Selina was as bad as any of these town women, but only Jane—and Jane's husband—knew that.

Another horrible epiphany that flashed before her—other people could not know that Jane herself was a virtuous woman! For all some of the strange officers knew, she and Letty could be women of the town, expecting their attentions! It was a sobering thought, and Jane decided that they must dress very carefully and modestly when on the street unescorted, for fear of misleading gentlemen, who might be unable to discern the wedding ring on Jane's hand.

And it was a melancholy thing, too. Jane felt pity for the poor abandoned women, reduced to such straits to make shift to live. How dreadful it must be for them, when men forced themselves upon them and hurt them. Even worse, they had to smile and laugh and pretend to like their abusers. It was a terrible but useful piece of knowledge. Jane felt very worldly wise, understanding so much that had been hidden from her before.

The two of them hurried home through the busy streets, crossing to Queen Street a few steps ahead of a pair of horsemen. The men did not notice them, high up as they were, and took for granted their possession of the street. Jane narrowly missed a pile of horse dung and jumped over it, darting out of the riders' way. Davus opened the door for them, and they stepped from the harsh light of Queen Street to the soft, diffused glow of the hall. Jane's feeling were mixed. The town was dangerous and nearly unrecognizable, but it was very interesting. The house was a place of safety, but she disliked it heartily.

There was a particular smell about the house that had begun to intrude disagreeably on her consciousness. A musty, unpleasant fug that was partly her father's tobacco, partly the stronger odor of unwashed bodies sweating in the summer sun, partly Selina's oppressive perfume of patchouli and jasmine, partly the flower arrangements downstairs that wilted and rotted so quickly in the heat_. This must be how the Grand Turk's harem smells,_ Jane imagined. And there were other smells, as well. There was the sweetish reek of stale wine. There was something to do with her father's ailments, something to do with Selina's being with child.

And the ever-present starchiness of cooked rice. Even with the cooking done outside in the summer kitchen, somehow it lingered in the house, settling into the rugs, insinuating itself into the draperies, oozing through keyholes to every corner of every room. Altogether, the smell of the house had begun to grate on Jane, making her wrinkle her nose when she opened her door in the morning, pursuing her upstairs when she escaped to her chamber after dinner.

Jane kept it at bay with her own sachets of lavender and lemon. She and Letty had sewn new ones, prettily embroidered, and tucked them all around the room. It was a clean scent, and one that either fought or absorbed the Rutledge Smell that troubled her so much.

Before she could escape to her room, Davus told her, "There's a letter for you, Miss Jane."

It was there, lying on the tray in the hall. Jane picked it up warily, seeing immediately the bold, wide-nibbed writing of her husband. Another letter!

Letty followed her upstairs. "It's nice that he's writing you, Miss Jane. He hasn't forgotten about you like the Missus said he would."

"I suppose." She shut the door, and flung herself into her rocking chair. Letty sat down to the spinet to practice. She was doing very well. The music made a pleasant accompaniment to her reading, and covered all the other sounds in the house.

_July 5, 1780_

_My dear Jane,_

_I thank you for your letter. It is a pleasant thing, to find that one is not altogether forgotten in this untamed and barbarous wilderness. Many of my men are ill with fever. It would be more serious if we were the only ones affected, but the rebels sicken as easily as we. I, however, remain hale and well. I pray that you and yours are likewise._

_An amusing adventure befell my friend Tarleton. A message was intercepted between some rebel militiamen and Colonel William Washington, requesting him to take command of the South Carolina rebels. Tarleton rode to the chief traitor's home and impersonated Washington. So simple were these backwoodsmen that he completely took them in. Hardly a man was lost, and we all laughed heartily over the trick. If only all rebels could be dealt with thus!_

_I was gratified by your interest in my family, and will answer your questions gladly. Yes, my mother indeed lives in London. She is very fond of Town, and has never cared for a country life. Mortimer Square, where she lives, is in the fashionable district of London called Mayfair. The square is large, and green in the summer. Our house faces south, which is very helpful during the colder months. The west side of the square is entirely taken up by Colchester House, the home of my uncle the earl. He is aged greatly of late, I am told, and does not get on well with my mother. _

_Only three weeks ago, I received a letter from my sister Lucy. She, too, lives in London, in the City. Perhaps you do not know that the old part of London is called the City. When we speak of London as a whole, we call it the Town. As Lucy married since I left England, I have never seen her house, but she told me it is on Tudor Street, not far from the Temple, which is a place where lawyers train and work. She informs me that her little Ned has another tooth and his eyes are not unlike mine. I am writing to Lucy, to inform her that she has a new sister. No man could be more certain that I of her welcome to you._

_No, indeed I did not attend Harrow. My old school is Eton, which is infinitely superior, though I cannot say I much enjoyed my years there. I remember principally being set to writing a plethora of lines in Greek and Latin, toasting bread with my fellows and nearly setting our rooms afire, and playing a number of thrilling--ball games. Forgive me. I was a good athlete, but you need not fear me reliving my youthful successes on the playing fields. My life since then has been interesting enough that I do not succumb to the silly nostalgia you so justly describe._

_My dear Jane, your letter filled me with relief and gratitude regarding our own affairs. Your rational, forgiving nature gives me great hope for our future. Our wedding day was not auspicious, but it is past, and let us make our future out of better stuff. How I regret any pain I gave you. It will never happen again. This, I promise._

_You spoke briefly of you stepmother's condition. I, too, shall speak briefly, and then let the subject rest forever untouched by either of us. I do not wish Mrs. Rutledge ill, but she is nothing to me, and she never will be. Your good sense, excellent accomplishments, and solid virtues—imperishable qualities--prove you worth ten of her. _

_A great shame that Miss Gilpin is gone. Her company meant much to you, I know. Perhaps you may yet meet again someday._

_It is too bad that your father and stepmother are so unpleasant. I am surprised that the profit he gained did not dispose your father better toward you. Such behavior is entirely contrary to our agreement. I look forward to discussing it with him. Remember always that this situation is not permanent, and consider that your present discomfort will make your future happiness the greater by contrast._

_It was remiss of me not to meet your little brother. Fortunate indeed, that you have such an object of affection. Fortunate for the little fellow, as well, I think._

_As to the war, your feelings as a woman are quite proper. Of course it is to be regretted that the rebels are so hardened in their opposition, but that is what soldiers are for. Without us, mob rule would triumph, passions overcome reason, petty tyrants flourish. Out here in the wild backcountry, there was already little law. With the war, it has become chaos: neighbor against neighbor, brother against brother. Honest men have become the lowest sort of bandit, sneaking through the swamps and hiding in the woods to defy the Crown's authority. While you may wish that this violence may be talked away, these men do not understand anything but fire and sword. I supply both with real pleasure._

_I have a new captain in my regiment now: one James Wilkins, who claims kinship with you. Do you know him? He is a great tall fellow, big as an ox. His knowledge of the colony may prove of use, but I am undecided about the man._

_Write to me, my dear Jane. We must know one another better that we may learn how to make each other happy._

_Your devoted husband,_

_William Tavington_

Jane let the letter drop into her lap and sat back in the chair, rocking slowly. There was so much to think about. She would annotate her accounts, and then go down and discuss today's menus with Papa. A great deal of household linen wanted washing: she must see to their supply of soap. She must pay little Ash his visit after his afternoon nap.

Letty struck a false note. Jane rolled her head to the side, looking at her. "F sharp. Letty. Look at the key signature."

"Yes, Miss. I see." The passage was repeated correctly. Letty was making rapid progress. With Miss Gilpin's departure, Letty had become more than maid to her: she was companion, confidante, and pupil. There was not just the music. Jane hated having no one with whom she could talk about her books, and had found things for Letty to read, lighter works at first, but which might someday evolve into more substantial reading.

Wearily, she got up from the chair, not daring to be too comfortable when there was so much to be done. Papa's library was no longer accessible to her. Tomorrow she would visit old Dr. Fellowes at the rectory. She could ask him about his youth in England. He had many interesting books: perhaps he possessed a map. Somewhere in a map of England might lie the lore that would help her better understand the man she had so thoughtlessly married.

-----

_July 16, 1780_

_My dear Colonel Tavington,_

_We are all quite well here, other than my stepmother's natural indispositions. I pray you are well, too._

_Yes, I have met Mr. Wilkins. We are indeed related, through my maternal grandmother's family. He is a third cousin, once removed. Not quite close enough for me to comfortably address him as "Cousin," since I do not know him well. I remember how very tall he seemed, so tall that it was inconvenient to try to converse with him. I believe him to be a man of honor. At least I know he spoke out for the King during the Assembly debates a few years ago. I have not heard what he was doing since then._

_Thank you for telling me so much about your family and their life in London. I visited our clergyman, old Dr. Fellowes, who came from England some years ago. We talked delightfully of his own experiences at home, and showed me interesting books about England and about London. They even had colored maps in them. I found Mayfair and Mortimer Square on the map of London, and then I looked at the north side of the square, where you said your family's house was located. I love maps. It is so diverting to study a map and imagine oneself in a new place._

_Perhaps you think that silly, but I have never been anywhere but Charlestown and Cedar Hill, and a few times to see cousins who live a few miles north on the Cooper River. That is all the world I know, and it seems painfully narrow at times. How I envy men who can travel and explore! When I think that I may someday see England—it makes me so happy. I wish to be on the ocean, right in the middle, and see nothing but ocean in every direction. I wish to see the great city of London, whose vastness I cannot even imagine. Many of us in South Carolina are often put out at the superior attitude of Englishmen from home, but when I consider how very different, how very sophisticated, how very old and established everything is in our mother country, I can sometimes understand it, even though I think it disagreeable._

_Dr. Fellowes told me how mild the climate was in his home county of Wiltshire. How pleasant, not to have to contend with the terrible heat that lasts for months and months here! He told me of Stonehenge, and the many antiquities near Salisbury—even the ruins of an ancient Roman city. Oh, I long to see such things!_

_Little Ash continues to be the best boy in the world. My nurse Biddy is so kind. I never grow tired of visiting her in the nursery. Every day Ash learns a new word, though sometimes it is not perfectly pronounced. He can ask us what something is, but the actual sounds are rather like, "Uhzah?" rather than "What's that?"_

_How dreadful the backcountry sounds. Papa has always said that the people there are very loutish and ignorant. They made so much trouble years ago that we nearly had a war with them!_

_Do not worry about me. While it is true that Papa and Selina are unpleasant to me, it is very liberating, in a way. I no longer have to pretend to like or respect Selina, and I no longer have to waste hours dancing attendance on her. I have much to occupy me: my household duties, Little Ash, my music and books, my other relations and acquaintances in town. Other than the rubs I experience in dealing with my father and stepmother, my life is not at all bad. _

_I remain, sir, your obedient wife,_

_Jane Tavington_

She regarded the letter with satisfaction. She had not talked endlessly about people he did not know and might never meet, she had thrown in admirably subtle hints that she did not wish to be deserted when he left South Carolina. She had not filled the letter with whining complaints, which would certainly irritate him.

For Jane had resigned herself to her situation. She had sworn before God to be Colonel Tavington's wife, and she could not break her word and keep her self-respect. To be sure, there were parts of being married that were horrid. But they only lasted a short time, and if she lay very still and did not try to oppose him, they would soon be over. Perhaps he could be persuaded to let her snuff the candles first. It would be so much less embarrassing that way.

And when he was not acting like a brute beast (how very descriptive the Marriage Service was, she now knew), he conversed well enough. His letters were interesting. When they lived together as man and wife, she would not see that much of him anyway. She would be busy with their home and their children. She supposed he would sit in his study, like Papa, and spend a great deal of time out on business or pleasure of various kinds. They would see one another at meals, and could pass the time eating with only a little small talk, and then at night he would do that awful thing he did and let her sleep. When she counted out the hours and minutes, and judged them fairly, there would be more pleasant time spent than unpleasant. And she would be in her own home, away from the Rutledges and their irritating _smell._

----- 

Tavington had been in the saddle for six hours. All things considered, he would have to remain in it for a few more. The crude village he now occupied was more easily studied from high on horseback. The patrols he had sent out were loping back like hounds now, full of information gleaned from the countryfolk—both willing and unwilling.

The most unwilling were not far from him, hanging from the convenient limb of a big cedar. The two men had been caught riding with the militia. A brief interrogation revealed that they were among those who had given their parole after the fall of Charlestown. Shameless treachery such as theirs would not find mercy from Tavington. The suspended bodies, already swelling and shapeless, swung gently in the hot breeze. The breeze blew the stink away from Tavington, so he ignored them.

Rumor had it that the Continentals were moving down from the north, ready to try their luck against British defenses in the South Carolina. They would probably be led by the traitor Horatio Gates, a British officer who had turned his back on his own country to take the rebels' pay. He might be called "The Hero of Saratoga" by the rebel press, but Tavington had neither read nor heard anything that impressed him. Gates had gotten the credit for other men's work, in his opinion—like so many other generals. When Gates made his appearance, he would find the King's forces ready for him.

They were on their way back to Winnsboro, after days of sleeping on the ground and eating meager rations. Life in camp at least meant a tent and somewhat better food. It also meant a chance to have a look at his correspondence—his lifeline with the civilized world beyond this hot green hell.

He must answer Jane's latest letter. There had only been time to look it over before leaving on this mission. The letter was locked securely in his traveling desk, which was sitting on the folding table in his command tent. Perhaps there were other letters as well by now.

Bordon rode up beside him, equally oblivious to the dead men. "Prebble says the scouts have found a shortcut through Black Swamp."

Tavington shrugged, "All the better, as long as it's not a shortcut that will get us shot or drowned."

"The men are eager to get back to camp. I confess I am as well."

"Yes, yes, we'll all be glad to get out of this muck," Tavington said impatiently. "I can see they're worn down. Some of them should be in hospital."

"Colonel!" A dragoon was riding hard into the village center. Tavington lifted his head and waved him over.

"What is it?"

"Lieutenant Prebble spotted the detachment of the 17th. They're headed this way."

"Good." Tavington was pleased. Nettles might have messages for him.

He had always liked Nettles, but today the young man seemed strangely distant. As they spoke, Tavington racked his brains trying to think of how he could have offended him. It was only after a few minutes conversation that he began to grasp the reason for Nettles' displeasure.

"I hope, sir, that Mrs. Tavington is well."

Tavington remembered then, as he sometimes did with a start, that he was indeed married. "In her last letter, she assured me she was, Nettles."

"I am happy to hear it, Colonel. Please convey my respects to her when next you meet."

Puzzled and somewhat amused, Tavington assured him, "I certainly shall. No doubt it will please her greatly to be remembered by you."

A grave look. Nettles quietly replied, "I daresay she has entirely forgotten me, sir; but I have not forgotten her."

Then the dispatches were produced and the conversation changed to the business at hand. And yet, while Tavington read the note from Lord Rawdon, he was thinking about something very different. _It appears that Nettles likes Jane. Did he have designs on her?_ Surreptitiously, he glanced at the sturdy, snub-nosed young officer. _Not much to look at in a ballroom, but a very good officer and not uneducated. A damned good thing that I pressed my advantage, _Tavington realized. _I might have been cut out all together. And by a lieutenant. That would have smarted!_

He was very satisfied with himself for having won Jane from any potential rivals. Still, it often has a salutary effect, even on a very handsome man, to discover that the woman in his life is admired by others. A man Tavington respected had liked Jane. Unconsciously, it raised Jane very much in his estimation.

-----

And her letter, reviewed at camp, was quite satisfactory. Jane had accepted her situation, and was trying to bear it as best she could. She also wrote with artless enthusiasm about returning with him to England. Tavington took a rather more jaundiced view of sailing than his inexperienced young wife. It was indeed very exciting the first few days—if one did not become hideously sick--and then one descended into a pit of boredom. It was terribly hard on horses. He had not forgotten the dreadful food, either. Just about the time they were out on the limitless ocean, where one saw no land in any direction, the fresh food ran out, and one made do with weevilly ships' biscuits and salt beef. Only the thought of seeing England once more could entice him onto a ship.

But he smiled as he reread the letter, touched that Jane had gone to the trouble of locating his family home on a map. A clever, studious girl. _She should do very well, with a little more attention on my part to get her over her silly prudery._

He smiled up then, at pretty Nan Haskins, come to collect his soiled linen. She smiled back, with a certain look in her eye. Tavington's cares slipped from his shoulders. Sometimes, it was _good_ to be a Colonel.

----

"How is the Colonel, Miss Jane?" Letty asked, looking up from her book. She and Jane were stretched out comfortably on their beds, reading. Jane had Tavington's latest letter, and Letty a wonderful novel Jane had lent her.

"Oh," laughed Jane, "The colonel is always _quite_ well." She rolled over onto her stomach. It contained more army talk, but Jane was beginning to understand that that was, after all, her husband's profession. Of course he was interested in it. "He was describing the battle at Camden, that's why it's so long. It's all full of blood and thunder. Would you like to hear it?"

Letty nodded eagerly. The Colonel had a way with words, especailly when he described battles. A good fight was always woth hearing about. It surprised her that Miss Jane was so uninterested in the Colonel's adventures..

Jane flipped the paper back to the beginning. "It starts as usual--'My dear Jane,' etcetera, etcetera--and then the usual questions about how we are--and here's the part about the battle:

"_The early hours, as always, were filled with anxious waiting: rankers and officers sitting their horses, the horses snuffling restlessly, a few of the dragoons making bets, giving each other letters to their families, or little keepsakes in case of the worst._

_"There was a great cannonade of the rebels' position, and the Lord General ordered us to maneuver quietly behind them. We made a great procession as we rode by twos completely around the field of battle. It may seem incredible to you, but no one took any notice of us. Then, once arrived, we again sat in silence for some time. My friend Bordon, beside me, drew my intention to a four-pounder that made a perfect smoke ring when fired. It spread out, keeping its shape for some time. It was very pretty, and I watched the battery, hoping for another, until distracted by events on the field. Then it was that the German mercenary who calls—called—himself Baron DeKalb (the title is an invention), was slain. I do not mean to cast a slur on the man's courage, for he fought bravely for the rebels. A great pity that such a warrior threw his life away in such a cause. The Lord General spoke to him with admirable magnanimity as he lay dying, saying that he was sorry to see him so—not sorry he was defeated, mind you—but sorry for his fate. I have no use for the rebels, as you know, but the man, at least, was a true professional, and deserves some respect for that. _

_"At last, we received orders to charge. At last! We were off on the hunt, galloping down on the rascals, sabres at the ready, our horses trampling the dead and leaping over shell pits and shattered gun carriages. The Continentals stood for a little while, but we dealt with them summarily. Their performance certainly outshone that of Gates himself, who turned and escaped with a few staff officers, leaving his army behind. _

_"The militia, of course, being nothing but rabble, soon broke and fled the field. We were ordered to finish them off, and to go after Sumter the Gamecock, himself. _

_"There followed a merry chase over hill, dale, and stream. Two days we rode in pursuit. At length, we caught them up at Fishing Creek. Most of them were killed. We captured wagon after wagon of supplies—sorely needed—and rescued over a hundred of our own men. Sumter, I regret to say, slipped through our fingers, but he is a spent force without his followers. _

_"I lost very few men, happily, and no officers. Tarleton fared almost as well, though one of his infantry lieutenants fell at Camden._

_"Speaking of lieutenants, Mr. Nettles of the 17th wished me to send you his compliments. You must have made quite an impression on him, my dear. He is a brave officer and an all-around good fellow. A pity he could not join us at the Swan, the day we were married. He would have been pleasant company. As you might have guessed, he too is unharmed by our little encounter with the rebels." _

Letty asked, "Who is Mr. Nettles?"

"Oh!" replied Jane, embarrassed. "Just an officer. He's very nice. He asked me for the first dances at the Cedar Hill ball, and took me to supper. And then we came across him at Swan's Tavern when we went there for the breakfast." She grimaced, as did Letty, who did not cherish her remembrances of that day. "Anyway," Jane continued, "he must have remembered me, which is very kind of him."

She returned to her letter, reading aloud.

_"I returned to Camden expecting some recognition for my services from the Lord General, but was instead forced to endure one of his 'cold spells.' The man is insufferable to me: there is an unfortunate history between our two families, which I will not recount in detail, as it was long ago and very sordid."_

"Too bad," Letty remarked. "That means it's probably pretty interesting."

Jane nodded her agreement, and kept on reading.

_"Bordon and I were bloody and half starved after our efforts, and in his tent we were treated to the sight of the Lord General's dogs being fed fresh beef! If you knew what the men (and officers) are generally given to eat, you would understand why I thought it outrageous. Cornwallis' flunkeys were equally scornful of me, though I grant their miserable excuse: they must stay in the Earl's good graces, or find themselves serving as line officers (like myself), who can actually be shot at! That is a bit of an exaggeration, to be sure, but I despise staff officers: they are no better than courtiers in uniform. _

_"The upshot of our conversation, if I may call his scornful dismissal of me by such a name, is that I am once again patrolling the backcountry, on the watch for traitors and traitors' nests. As much as I dislike agreeing with your father, I must say that his description of the people here is indeed correct: a greater pack of loutish yokels I never saw. The country though, is beautiful: everything grows here. _

_"I thank you again, my Jane, for your charming letter. Very wise of you, learning more about your mother country. I have been in Wiltshire (we have some relations there) and have seen Stonehenge and the ruins of Sarum. It is indeed most fascinating. Perhaps we shall go there together someday. And until you have actually seen London for yourself, nothing I say can do it justice. It is a world in itself. As Dr. Johnson puts it, 'A man who is tired of London, is tired of life.' _

_"Do reply soon, Jane: for reading your letters—the refined, beautifully-written letters of a well-bred lady—is a great refreshment to me in this savage place. _

_"Your devoted husband, _

_William Tavington"_

Jane set the letter down again, and rolled onto her back.

Letty said, "That was a nice letter, Miss Jane. He said some mighty pretty things to you."

"Yes," Jane sighed. "He does indeed write a good letter. I wish his behavior in person were a match for his polite correspondence." She looked over at Letty, who had returned to her book. "Are you reading Miss Fielding again?"

"Yes. I just love this book. The girls are so sweet." She stroked the book's cover tenderly. The printing proclaimed it _as The Governess: or, the Little Female Academy, _by Sarah Fielding. An inscription on the flyleaf disclosed that it had been a gift from Miss Gilpin to Jane on her twelfth birthday. Jane had long since outgrown it, but Letty read the book again and again, immersing herself in the world of Mrs. Teachum and her pupils. She loved Jenny Peace, and Polly Suckling, and Dolly Friendly. They were all real to her, and delightfully so. And equally delightful were the stories and fairy tales the girls recounted to each other, like the story of Caelia and Chloe and how happy they had been before that Colonel Sempronius had come between them.

Letty had read _Pamela_ by Mr. Richardson, and _Joseph Andrews_ (by Miss Sarah's brother Henry), and was dutifully wading though _Sir Charles Grandison_ with Jane, but when she wanted to find a peaceful place for a moment's rest, she would draw out _The Governess_, and open it to any page.

Jane had also introduced her to poetry. Jane adored poetry, and had never had anyone to share it with before, since Miss Gilpin had thought it absolute rubbish. So Herrick was selected, and Donne, and the great Mr. Pope, who Letty thought just went on _too long._ Some of it was pretty, though, very pretty—like music, sometimes. And there were some verses that Mr. Gray had written, she thought, just for her:

_"Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,_

_Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;_

_Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile_

_The short and simple annals of the poor._

_Full many a gem of purest ray serene_

_The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:_

_Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,_

_And waste its sweetness on the desert air."_

_-----_

Over one hundred reviews! How nice. Thanks to all my kind reviewers for their support and input.

**Next--Chapter 12: The Return of the Soldier **


	12. The Return of the Soldier

_Disclaimer: Gosh, do I really have to say this again?. No, I don't own the rights to The Patriot._

**Chapter 12: The Return of the Soldier **

August was ending in a blaze of red sun. Jane found herself looking forward to the end of summer and the mitigation of the heat. September was always an important month for her. This year it would be so more than ever, for she was about to take a very bold step, and was not sure what might come of it.

Since turning twenty-one, she had received the income from her fortune quarterly: at Christmas, Easter, Midsummer's Day, and Michaelmas. The Michaelmas payment at the end of September was always the one largely turned over to her father, but this year Jane was determined to keep the money for herself.

Opposing her father in this way was bound to lead to ill-feeling. Jane dreaded it, but had decided that she was ready to bear the consequences. And thus, on the fourth Monday in August, she made her way to her father's study for their daily conference about meals and household accounts. As usual, Jane presented the books, was sharply questioned, was nagged about the dinner, and then brusquely dismissed.

"There is one more thing I need to discuss with you, Papa," she declared calmly. She was actually very frightened, but the knowledge of her just cause would see her through this interview. She clutched her account book tightly to hide the trembling in her hands.

"What?"

"I will be receiving my quarterly income next month. This year, I am not going to pay you for room and board."

He looked up at her sharply, eyes glaring under his bristling brows. A dull red spread across his jowls. His voice became soft and menacing. "And why not?"

She swallowed, and kept her face blank. "Because, Papa, you have told me I am no longer a part of your family. You said I was merely a housekeeper, and that was the reason I was not wanted in the parlor after dinner. This is your home: you are master here, and I cannot question your decision. However, I have never heard of a housekeeper who was called upon to pay two hundred pounds a year for the privilege of running someone else's household."

That slit-eyed gaze had always alarmed her: it generally portended an explosion. "Are you expecting me to _pay you_?"

"No!" she answered quickly—too quickly. Forcing her voice down to its desirable state of blandness, she replied, "No, of course not. I am your daughter, after all, and could hardly expect payment from my own father." She did not look him in the eye, but let him consider what she was implying. "I simply do not intend to pay you any longer. If that is unsatisfactory, I am quite prepared to make other arrangements."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he snarled. "Well, your _husband_ told you to stay here. What would he say when he discovers that you have disobeyed him?"

"I have not disobeyed him, sir," Jane answered calmly. "I am simply not going to turn over to you two hundred pounds of what he would certainly consider to be his money. If you ask me to leave, I must bow to your decision. My husband knows nothing of my past payments to you. Shall I write and enlighten him?"

He stared at her then, slumped back in his huge chair: a cold, steady stare like a reptile's. Finally he said, "No. Keep your money. Much good it will do you when he takes the lot. Now get out."

"And do you wish me to leave this house?"

He got up, then, and barked, "No, damn your impudence!"

Jane flinched only a little. She had been expecting worse. She thought it best to depart then, and find something to do far away, upstairs.

-----

He would do nothing, Jane realized, in the silent days that followed. There would be no explosion. Her father would no longer expropriate an enormous sum of money from her each year. She had been aware for some time, from conversations with her cousins, that no one else's daughter was expected to give her father money like a boarder. It had plagued her, to feel herself so wronged. And now, because she had rebelled against injustice, it was over. Jane considered the power of defiance, when one had right on one's side. Her father, knowing how little sympathy he would garner if he published her refusal abroad, had simply dropped the matter. Jane felt exultant, and looked forward to secreting the Michaelmas payment into her little tin box.

She had not heard from Tavington in over a fortnight, when a letter appeared on the hall table one afternoon. She snatched at it and ran upstairs to read it in privacy.

_September 10, 1780_

_My dear Jane,_

_I am well and unwounded, which is more than I can say for a number of the King's enemies._

_You may as well know, before anyone else, that I will be seeing you no later than Friday fortnight. The Lord General is returning briefly to Charlestown to meet with colonial representatives, the Inspector of Militia, and the senior naval officers, among others. There will be a number of social events, including a ball, which the Earl considers a way to oil the wheels of diplomacy. I hold no such grand hopes for the evening, other than an agreeable time spent with friends. I should like very much to dance with you again, so before anyone else can ask you, I request the honor of the first two dances, the supper dance, and the last. _

_Another agreeable part of such a return is the opportunity to introduce you to more of my fellow officers, and to reacquaint you with others already known to you. Captain Bordon, always an admirer of yours, will be traveling with me, along with James Wilkins…_

They made all the necessary arrangements for her husband's visit. Jane announced his impending arrival that night at dinner. The words hung in the dining room air, gone frigid with her news. Her father grunted, and Selina looked down her nose. Aunt Alice gave it more decent attention, with a whole sentence expressing how glad she was that Jane would see her husband.

Jane was not sure what she was feeling. She had told Letty that her husband was coming. It was decided that Letty would sleep with her mother up in the north garret while the Colonel was in residence. It was further decided that Jane must have a gown suitable for the Lord General's ball.

Otherwise, it was all confusion. At night, when she lay alone with her secret fears, Jane had almost subscribed to Selina's opinion that Tavington would never return to her. If he did intend to leave, however, there would be arrangements he would have to make. Perhaps he wanted to speak to her lawyers and bankers, and collect her fortune before departing. It would be one explanation. It did not, however, quite coincide with the sentiments expressed in his letters.

He was coming to stay, however briefly. In the house in town, that might mean—no, _must_ mean—that he would be sharing her room. Letty had brought that up immediately, to Jane's distress. He would want to share her bed, perhaps, and not sleep in the small one used by Letty. Or perhaps she could sleep there. Or not. Perhaps suggesting such a thing might be considered indelicate, or offensive. She had no idea what the etiquette of the situation called for, and she had no one she cared to ask. Would he behave this time, or attack her? And could she defend herself? She had vowed to obey him, but had she known then what she knew now….

-----

Tavington dismounted before the Rutledge's house on Queen Street, wondering what sort of reception awaited him. A groom rushed from the stable behind the house to tend his horse.

"Take my valise and the rest of my possessions to my room," Tavington commanded, and then sauntered unhurriedly to the front door, which opened before him.

Jane was waiting, her face a mask of calm, extending her hand in welcome.

"Colonel." She was grave, but not hostile. He was pleased that the exchange of letters had made things better between them.

Tavington approached her and kissed her hand, with equal gravity. There was, thankfully, no sign of Rutledge or his wife. A middle-aged woman with a whisper-soft voice and hair shot with grey appeared behind Jane and was introduced as Mrs. Izard. Tavington took her to be the "Aunt Alice" of Jane's letters. A mild little woman, who if she was not Jane's friend, at least was not her enemy.

He acknowledged her politely, and then told Jane, "My trunk will be coming later with the wagons."

"I understand." She seemed uneasy, not sure what to do with him. Finally she said, "I would invite you into the parlor, but I am not generally permitted there myself."

Tavington's brows rose. She had said nothing of this in her letters. Jane hurried on. "I mean I am when family members come to call, but not as a usual thing. I take my meals with the family, but Papa says I'm not really part of his family anymore, and the parlor is for them."

"Where do you sit, then?"

"You see," she said, more and more embarrassed, "I am so busy during the day—outside in the kitchen or upstairs in the nursery or sewing room. After dinner, I just go up to my own bedchamber."

"Well, as I am a guest of the house, and your father is hardly in a position to deny me, I believe we shall make use of the parlor right now." Tavington was not about to let Rutledge set limits on his use of the house. If he made trouble, Tavington was within a hair's breadth of exiling him and the tiresome Selina to the upstairs garret. Of course, he would not mind going to the room he would share with Jane, but it would probably frighten the poor girl to death if he immediately proposed such a thing in middle of the afternoon.

"Would you care for some tea?" she asked softly as they entered the elegant room, its walls covered with pale-blue damask.

"That would be delightful, Madam."

Tavington found a chair he liked and studied his wife in the ensuing pause. She was not exactly as he remembered. Sitting quietly in the handsome parlor and dressed nicely, Jane was certainly not as strained and unattractive as she had been when he had last seen her. She was not ugly: she was simply not _pretty_. He analyzed her features, seeing how eyes and skin and nose and brow fell short of beauty. Nonetheless, she was not unpleasant to look at, all in all. Jane did not return his gaze, and seemed to find the parlor rug of great interest. Mrs. Izard timidly asked him after his health.

"I'm quite well, Madam. I hope everyone under this roof is equally well."

"Oh—yes—that is---Mrs. Rutledge is a little indisposed, now and then—you see—her _condition_…"

"Yes, yes. I understand you. Mr. Rutledge is now recovered from his illness of the spring?" He looked at Jane, who met his gaze reluctantly.

She cleared her throat. "Indeed, yes. My father is very much himself now."

"Excellent."

More silence. Jane gave him a look he could not quite interpret, other than to think that her father being hale, hearty, and _himself_ might not be a perfectly agreeable state of affairs.

Mrs. Izard, brave little woman, tried again, much to Tavington's admiration.

"Everyone is so delighted about my Lord Cornwallis' ball. The whole town is quite astir."

"Indeed, I am glad to hear it. It promises to be an interesting affair." He turned to Jane once more. "Evidently you received my last letter."

"Of course. It was considerate of you to give us warning---I mean, to let us make proper arrangements for your reception."

Blessedly, the tea arrived, and his wife was occupied with making it and serving it, with all the usual bits of ceremony involved. Everyone drank a cup in the sort of silence generally observed on Sunday during the parson's prayer. Jane set her cup down with a deep sigh.

Tavington seized the moment. "I would be obliged if you would show me to our room. I fear it will take some effort to make myself fit to be seen by you or any other ladies."

Aunt Alice hastily assured him of his perfect suitability for their own or any other parlor, but Jane rose without a word, and led the way upstairs.

Her heart was pounding, and the act of setting one foot before another on the steps was almost more than she could manage. She held her head high as she walked down the upstairs hall and flung open the door of the room that was hers, and would now be theirs.

Tavington strolled in, admiring the cool tidiness of the chamber. "Very agreeable." His valise was on the clothes press. The rest of his gear was neatly stacked in a corner. A fresh, strong breeze ruffled the translucent curtains. He noted the large, comfortable looking bed, the well-appointed wash stand, the daintily arranged dressing table, the capacious chest of drawers, the----

He walked over to examine the little polished spinet. "This is new, is it not?"

"Yes." Her jaw felt nearly paralyzed. "I purchased it when Selina forbade me the use of the one in the parlor."

He did not bother to comment on that piece of spite. The instrument was far more interesting. "Very nice." It was a pretty little thing. Tavington liked music, and approved of the accomplishment in women. "I wonder if you might play for me."

"Play—now?"

"Yes. Why not? I need to have a wash, and you can accompany my ablutions."

Astonished at the request, but exceeding glad she would not have to _witness_ the threatened ablutions, Jane seated herself, her back to him, and fumbled for the nearest piece of music, "Robin Adair."

Trembling, she could hear her husband unclipping his sword, unbuckling his sword belt, removing his jacket. She played faster.

Tavington laughed to himself, and took his time.

He could see her in the mirror: her thin, straight back to him, dutifully playing her spinet as if her life depended on her total concentration on the music before her. Her shoulders hunched defensively in the posture he knew from the army; when a soldier feared punishment. _A sorry beginning._

Walking over to the clothes press, he retrieved his valise. The movement distracted Jane. "What is that?" she asked, puzzling over the leather cylinder.

"My valise."

"That's not your only luggage, is it?"

He laughed. "Hardly. This handy little container fits at the back of my saddle, and holds my emergency supplies."

Curious, Jane stopped playing and peered at it. "And what are your emergency supplies? Are they—weapons?"

"Well," he retrieved his razor. "My shaving kit, of course. I suppose my razor might be used as a weapon of sorts. Then," he smiled, reaching into the valise like a magician, "A mirror! A comb!" He dug deeper, and drew out lengths of white fabric. "A clean shirt! Dry stockings!"

Jane was smiling a little, uncertainly and timidly, but she was definitely looking less frightened. Tavington saved the best for last. "And now, my weapons of last resort! A spoon! A fork!" They were very nice silver ones, too. Tavington was happy to have managed to keep them so long in the midst of a war.

"I don't know," Jane observed hesitantly. "I'm sure you could do great damage with that fork. And the spoon would hurt even more." She smiled then, really smiled, and Tavington laughed lightly with pleasure. He hefted the spoon experimentally.

"I blush to admit I hadn't thought of it. Very resourceful of you, my dear."

"Is that all?"

He pointed to the balance of his possessions in the corner. "Everything else is strapped onto my mount: canteen, pistol buckets, telescope and all."

Jane reached out to look at the telescope, fumbling as she tried to adjust it. Tavington slid into the extra chair by the spinet, and put his hands over hers, helping her. She shrank away a little, but he held fast, very gently, and encouraged her to look through it.

"I can see the ships in the harbor!" she cried, delighted. "Wait! There was a shadow!" She lowered the instrument, her face puzzled.

"Possibly a bird flew past."

She ran a finger over the polished metal. "It's very nice." She turned the tube around and saw the inscription. _"To Wm. Tavington from his very loving mother."_

"How kind of her. She must love you very much."

"I believe she does." He sat by her silently a moment, and she gravely handed him the telescope. He opened it again, displaying it for her inspection. "She gave this to me before I left for America. It's had its share of hardships, like all the rest of His Majesty's forces. Look here," he said, tracing out a dent near the lens. "My poor telescope was gravely wounded at Brandywine. And here," he added, showing her a long rippling scrape, "is another honorable scar, received in service 'gainst General Gates at Camden. And yet my brave telescope remains largely intact and implacably resolved to bear all the fortunes of war."

"Just as well," Jane said, "that the scars are on the telescope and not on you."

"I have my share, I assure you."

She looked up sharply then, somewhat alarmed. "Really! You did not tell me! You have been wounded?"

"Frequently," he admitted, and then smirked. "But never seriously. My enemies tend to look a great deal worse."

"Well, that a good thing—I suppose. I mean, it's terrible to think of anyone being hurt or killed, but I suppose…" Confused, she could not think of anything sensible to say at first. "Have you been wounded recently?"

Tavington thought a moment, and decided to take the risk. "Yes, actually." He rolled up his right sleeve, and showed her the red scar tissue of a healing cut across his forearm. "A slash from one of the Maryland regulars. I paid him back with interest."

Jane looked very impressed and sympathetic, and warily put out a hand to touch his hurt. Very softly, she stroked the length of the mark with her forefinger. The hair on his arm lifted with the contact, and he smiled down at her bowed head naughtily.

"Does it hurt?" she asked.

"It's nothing. I've had far worse. Perhaps, in time, you will see all that I have endured for King and Country." He let her stroke his arm a little longer, wanting her to become accustomed to touching him. She had very soft hands.

For her part, Jane found the muscular arm before her fascinating. The dark hair was silken under her curious fingertips, and the welt of his wound made her feel rather tender toward him. However fierce and violent he was, it was only to be expected. A soldier's life was terribly hard. He had a right to defend himself, after all…

He took her hand in his, and spoke more carefully than he ever had in his life. "My dear Jane, do not be afraid of me. Whatever I have done to grieve you is in the past. I am your husband, and, I hope, you will someday regard me as your best friend in the world. We are safely married now, and have time enough before us to learn how to be a happy couple."

"Just—don't hurt me," she muttered.

Patiently, he put his arm about the thin little shoulders, and said, "I am very sorry if you were badly hurt. Surely you know, my dear, that that is only to your credit, as an innocent, virtuous young woman. It should never hurt you like that again."

Jane bit her lip, wishing he would not talk as if they were going to do—_that_—again. But it seemed he wanted to. There was no understanding him. She knew it must be so, or how would she ever have children of her own? Yes. She must be brave and bear it for that reward. It was just like her husband being a soldier and suffering wounds in battle.

Finally, she gave a quick nod of understanding. Tavington smiled and squeezed her shoulder before getting up to change his shirt. Jane, sitting on the bed, watched him shyly. Little flutters of excitement stirred just below her heart.. She remembered how warm his skin had been under her hands, the play of muscles along his back, the feel of his hard chest against her, tickling her with the sparse, soft hair. She clutched the bed curtain convulsively, and pressed her thighs together. After a little while, she moved from the bed to the bench at the dressing table, and handed him his comb so he could tidy his hair. She explored his toilet articles on the table with wary interest. It was an intimacy she had never experienced with a man before. Men's things were so _different_...

The day was full of bustle and surprise. Tavington had to leave for a few hours, on some business that could not be delayed. He kissed Jane's hand when he left, and later returned to dine with his new family, pointedly sitting opposite his wife and engaging her in conversation. Equally pointedly, he told Jane to wait in the parlor after dinner for him to join her. Selina bridled at her presence and ignored her. Jane ignored Selina in her turn, and sat at the large instrument in the room, playing loudly until Tavington and her father joined them. They were not long.

Just as well. Aunt Alice talked softly to Selina, who did not hear word she said. It hurt more than she could have imagined to see her child's father under her roof, and to see him so indifferent to her. Why could things not be as they were before? She was not so far gone in pregnancy as to be ugly, and she felt so ill sometimes. It would have been such a sweet comfort, had he been able to sit by her, talking in that delightful way he had. Jane had ruined it all. Selina could understand, of course, why he had married her for her money. Handsome men needed something to live on, just as ugly ones did. It was a wretched shame that he was trapped now.

She had suffered horribly, months ago, when she thought he had betrayed her. After thinking over what Jane had said, though, she knew he was innocent. He would never have done such a thing. It was Jane: Jane sneaking and spying on them in her nasty, prying way. Jane had seen them and written something down about it. Probably she had some sort of hold over Tavington as well, forcing him to ignore Selina.

It made her heart ache in a strange, unfamiliar way, but it was a kind of consolation, knowing him as helpless as she. The two of them were like lovers in old stories, forced apart by a cruel, unfeeling world. She took a deep breath, pleased by this new picture of herself as the heroine of a doomed romance. She could secretly cherish their brief time together, and cherish him as the most wonderful man she had ever known.

Tavington was curt with his father-in-law. Rutledge had profited from his daughter's marriage, and had rewarded her with the shabbiest treatment. He did not mince words, as he glared into the older man's eyes. Rutledge was no coward, but there was little he could say in his own defense. Nor did Tavington care to listen, if he had. He took another glass of wine, and downed it in three swallows. He set the glass on the table with a thump and a sneer. Feeling he had made his point, he swaggered to the parlor, to listen to his wife's performance and give her some well-deserved, very vocal praise.

After what he deemed a sufficient time to make clear that he would do in this house exactly as he liked, he offered Jane his arm, and took a candle upstairs to light their way. He could now begin the next stage of the courtship of his wife.

---- 

**Note:** I know I said I wouldn't bother you with historical notes, but just to give you an idea of what Jane was paying in room and board-- two hundred pounds in 1780 was roughly equivalent to twelve thousand pounds today, or twenty thousand dollars.

**Next—Chapter 13: World Enough, And Time**


	13. World Enough, and Time

_Disclaimer: I am not Robert Rodat, screenwriter of The Patriot. Nor am I Thomas Gray, William Shakespeare, or Andrew Marvell._

**Chapter 13: World Enough, and Time **

Jane's bedchamber was indeed a very pleasant room, quite suitable for his purposes. A fire on the hearth, the candles lit and glowing—all combined to make the room very welcoming.

"I trust you do not expect me to sleep there," Tavington asked, with a quizzical look at the little narrow bed set perpendicular to the foot of the big one.

"Not if you don't want to—I could—I mean, that is Letty's bed. When you are not here."

Amusement twitched his mouth. "She will not be joining us, then?"

"No!" _He was joking_, she realized, after a moment of hair-raising horror. _He was joking…_

"Of course," he continued, "It would be very literary. Very like the Arabian nights, with Sheherazade's sister Dunyazade sleeping at the foot of the Sultan's bed, using her wits to help save her sister."

If he could joke, so could she. Nearly straight-faced, she asked, "Do you wish me to tell you stories?"

"I wish—" he said, and paused, fixing her with those wonderful, glittering eyes. "No—this evening is yours. You shall not do anything you do not wish to do. If you wish to tell me stories, I shall listen enthralled. If you wish to play cards—" he smiled brightly at her little laugh of astonishment "---I shall let you win. We shall rest when you like, talk when you like, and then—" he leaned over her earnestly, brushing her cheek with his fingertips, a delicate tracing over her firm jaw, as his voice dropped to the low purring of a panther tamed, "if you like, you may do as you wish with me."

Greatly emboldened, she ventured, "And what if I wish to banish you to the little bed? Or outside?"

He rested his hands on her shoulders, and stroked casually down her arms. "Than I shall obey without a murmur, But I hope you will not be so—" _cruel_, he had nearly said, but remembered, and replaced it with "--exacting."

She dropped her eyes, and then looked up again, to be absolutely certain. "And I shall not have to do anything I do not wish to do?"

"No. I give you my word."

Tavington was fairly sure he could keep such a promise. He was hardly suffering from deprivation. He had pretty Nan Haskins in camp, and there was Madeleine, a French Creole girl, who was traveling with the little parade of officers on the way to Charlestown. Nice, clean girls, and not the sort to blab his name about. He was not a whoremonger, like his late, unlamented father, but a man whose natural desires needed an outlet. No, he should not throw himself on his inexperienced young wife like a starving man at a feast. He must win her confidence, and teach her to feel pleasure in his company. If tonight yielded nothing but some kisses and caresses—a bit of fumblethumb between the sheets—that was quite all right. He had a few days, and could wait…

Jane supposed she should be pleased, with a handsome man in her bedchamber promising to be hers to command. Unfortunately, she found herself staring at him, at a loss as to what to _do_ with him. She thought of playing music to him, but decided she had already done enough of that for a day. And he was her guest.

"Please—be seated. I am sorry to keep you standing about like this," she apologized.

To her dismay, he did not take a chair, but settled down on the edge of her bed, smiling innocently at her. Not so easily disarmed as she once might have been, she thought about what she would _really_ like. What had he done in the past that she had liked?

"Well," she began nervously, "I don't want to play at cards. I hate cards."

"Very well," he said. She looked at him sharply, to see if he was laughing at her. He probably was, but was not doing it openly, so she decided to let it go. "Do you like to read?"

His brows lifted at that. "You wish to discuss literature?"

"No. I would like you to read to me."

He seemed amenable, cocking his head to the side, bemused. "Whatever pleases you, my dear."

She felt her way to her bookshelf, keeping her eyes on him, as if he were a beast of uncertain trustiness. Yes, there it was. "I should like you to read—this."

"This?" _Hardly something to seduce a lady…_

"I want you to read it. You went to school there, and when I read it, all I hear in my head is my own voice. It ought to be read by a man."

"If I must…

_"Ye distant spires, ye antique towers_

_That crown the watery glade,_

_Where grateful Science still adores_

_Her Henry's holy shade…"_

And she insisted he read every single verse of it. Tavington had never imagined reading _"Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College"_ to a lady in her bedchamber, still less his wife, but at least it was not trash. Jane walked about the room restlessly, while he read from her little dog-eared book.

And he liked it himself, especially some of the latter stanzas:

_"Ambition this shall tempt to rise,_

_Then whirl the wretch from high,_

_To bitter Scorn a sacrifice_

_And grinning Infamy._

_The stings of Falsehood those shall try_

_And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye,_

_That mocks the tear it forced to flow;_

_And keen Remorse with blood defiled,_

_And moody Madness laughing wild_

_Amid severest woe."_

At the last verse, she stopped pacing, and sat on the bed beside him, piercing him with such an intense look he was glad to focus on the printed page:

_"To each his suffering: all are men,_

_Condemn'd alike to groan; _

_The tender for another's pain, _

_Th' unfeeling for his own. _

_Yet, ah! Why should they know their fate,_

_Since sorrow never comes too late, _

_And happiness too swiftly flies? _

_Thought would destroy their paradise. _

_No more—where Ignorance is bliss_

_Tis folly to be wise."_

There was silence. Tavington dropped his next words into it, like pebbles in a deep well.

"Did you like that?"

Her breath came quick. She turned her head away, biting her lip.

"Yes. I loved it. It hurts me, but it fills me with great happiness at the same time." She looked at him again. "Your voice is beautiful. I shall always hear it now, when I read that poem."

_Well,_ he thought with some satisfaction, _progress has been made. Perhaps there is something in this poetry business_. He thumbed back through the book, looking for something more to the point.

"Would you like more? How about this---

_"Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments---"_

"No!" she interrupted. "Not that one. It has nothing to do with us, and you know it."

Rather taken aback, he let her take the book and point out the spot. "That one, instead."

He knew the poem, very well. It had been something of his father's testament. He could recall the last time Father had quoted it, even now. Gravely, he sighed, and read the terrible words:

_"Th'expense of spirit in a waste of shame _

_Is lust in action; __and till action, lust_

_Is perjur'd, murderous, bloody, full of blame, _

_Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust: _

_Enjoy'd no sooner but despisèd__ straight; _

_Past reason hunted, and no sooner had, _

_Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait _

_On purpose laid to make the taker mad: _

_Mad in pursuit and in possession so; _

_Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme; _

_A bliss in proof, and prov'd, a very woe;_

_Before, a joy propos'd; behind, a dream. _

_All this the world well knows; yet none knows well _

_To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell. _

A deeper silence: black, corporeal, and a fist to the heart. Tavington gritted his teeth, and spoke.

"You are not implying, I trust, that this is hell?"

"I don't know," she whispered. "It could well become so."

"No." he said firmly, laying the book down. "This is not hell, my dear. I've served four years in the American War, and I tell you that sitting in a candlelit bedchamber, reading poetry to one's cultivated young wife, is in no way to be described as hell. Hell is seeing one's friend spurting bright blood from his neck, and not being able to do a thing to save him. Hell is cutting one's way through the enemy, and trying to scrape a man's face off one's blade. No, don't flinch—you want to know about Hell? Ask some poor sergeant's wife, her only child dead in agony from the bloody flux, packing up and moving along with the camp the very next day, leaving an unmarked grave behind.

"What we are having, my dear Jane, are _difficulties._ I displeased you, and—caused you pain---I grant that. But not _mortal_ pain, you yourself must admit. You dislike remaining under your father's roof. It is unpleasant, most obviously, but you are well fed, well sheltered, and protected from murder, rape, and robbery. There are many women who would envy you, and justly so."

She turned her head away, resenting his dismissal of her unhappiness. "You said you would do as I wished. Can you not be kind to me, even for one night?"

Brought up short, he grimaced. "Forgive me. Poetry is perhaps safer for us than everyday life. What else might please you here?"

"Pick something you like."

"All right." He paged through, sure he would find what he wanted. And there it was.

_"Had we but world enough, and time, _

_This coyness, lady, were no crime. _

_We would sit down, and think which way _

_To walk, and pass our long love's day."_

She rose, and paced again. Tavington read the poem clearly, sure that Marvell could plead his suit better than he.

_"…But at my back I always hear _

_Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near: _

_And yonder all before us lie _

_Deserts of vast eternity."_

Jane sighed, and Tavington glanced up at her, but she was listening, and he read it to its glorious end:

_"…Now let us sport us while we may; _

_And now like amorous birds of prey, _

_Rather at once our Time devour, _

_Than languish in his slow-chapt power. _

_Let us roll all our strength and all _

_Our sweetness up into one ball _

_And tear our pleasures with rough strife _

_Thorough the iron gates of life. _

_Thus though we cannot make our sun _

_Stand still, yet we will make him run." _

Her eyes shut, and breathing deeply, she laid her hand on the book.

"Perhaps that is enough poetry for now."

"Then what next to please you?"

Jane quickly reviewed everything in her life that pleased her: music, literature, Letty, Biddy, her female cousins, lavender and lemon sachet, Little Ash—

"Tell me about your childhood. You must have been an adorable boy."

Tavington laughed, astonished at such a notion.

"No! I was a little hellion. My parents often and vocally wished I'd never been born. I chased my nurse with my father's sword when she refused me sweets, I broke my brother's arm wrestling, I played abominable pranks on my tutor, and I once fell in with a band of dirty little pauper boys and was swept along with them on a crime spree."

"No! A crime spree—" She shook her head in disbelief, laughing unwillingly.

"The truth, I assure you. I was rather fond of sneaking out of an evening and looking for adventure. I had met the boys before on my rambles and they liked the idea of rubbing elbows with a gentleman."

"How old were you?"

On impulse, he decided to tell her the tale, one that only Lucy knew.

"Hmm—I believe ten—yes, ten—just before my eleventh birthday. It was the summer before I was sent to school. That night, Dick told us that his sister had been kidnapped by an old pawnbroker in Cock's Lane. We were to go and rescue her. It seemed a gallant deed, and we all swore to stand by her, as true honest Englishmen."

Jane was entranced. "You little boys were going to save a young woman? How sweet, and how brave!"

Tavington snorted. "A little girl, actually. Dick told us his sister was all of nine. Still, such things do happen. There are filthy creatures who prey on children."

"All the more reason to help her," she cried anxiously. "Why did he not go to the authorities?"

"My dear Jane! I'm sure such a thing never entered his head. The last thing anyone of his sort would want would be to attract the attention of the 'authorities!' Besides," he continued, thoughtfully, "it's entirely possible Dick's father sold her to the old man. That happens often enough, too."

"As a slave?" Jane was bewildered. "But---"

"No," Tavington contradicted her. "Not exactly as a slave, but for his pleasure."

Jane flinched, and muttered, "Please go on with your story."

"At any rate, we made a great game of creeping through the lane and alleys to our destination. Of course, we could have simply walked down the street, but that would not have been so exciting. At length, we found the place, a mouldering old shop, with the pawnbroker's rooms above. He had a manservant to guard the place who was absent that night, no doubt the reason Dick gathered us for the fray.

"It was locked, of course, but Dick's comrade Budge had his own picklock. The alley was stinking and pitch black, save for the dark lantern Robin carried. Within minutes, we burst into the shop, shouting like—little boys. There were at least eight of us, and you can imagine the noise. Why the neighbors did not summon the watch sooner, I don't know, other than the area was so vile that the watch was loath to venture there.

"Dick dashed up the stairs to the floor above. Robin and I followed him. I had the little dress sword my father had given me, and Robin a knife. Dick had the simplest of weapons: a thick heavy cudgel. I remember my excited wonder at the squalid little rooms, and how we ran at the closed door with a light under it. That door was locked, too, and Dick shouted at the man to open. I did not even wonder where the rest of our fellows were, so thrilled was I at our adventure. I later found that they were busy downstairs, ransacking and robbing the place.

"The pawnbroker stumbled out of the room, staring down at the three of us pipsqueaks. He called us some names that I will not bruise your ears by repeating, though you probably would not understand them. I could see how he despised us, and for a moment I could imagine how the three of us boys appeared to such a man.

"He swung a fist and knocked Dick to the floor. I did not hesitate, but ran my sword through his body."

"But you had a toy sword!"

He was a little offended. "A toy! Never in this world. Small, yes: but my father would not so insult me. It was real enough, as the fellow found. He screamed, and Robin moved in and stabbed him. The pawnbroker tried to shove us aside and escape, but he tripped over Dick on the floor. We quite had him at our mercy."

"Like the Lilliputians and Gulliver!" she said, fascinated and horrified.

Another amused grimace. "Yes, now that you put it that way. None of us knew quite what to do. But Dick had looked further into the room and saw his sister, a tiny thing, cowering under the sheets. She did not make a sound, but peered at us silently with enormous, terrified eyes. Uttering a wordless cry, Dick smashed the old man's head with his cudgel."

"Good God!" cried Jane. She clutched at Tavington's hand. "Did he die?"

Tavington laughed impatiently, but decided not to tell her how long it actually took. "Well, yes, of course. Men generally do, when they have their heads battered in. We all stood staring. Finally, I addressed the little sister, whose name escapes me, though I thought it graven on my heart forever at the time. I believe I bowed and said, 'Your servant, ma'am,' or some such nonsense."

Jane laughed, very weakly. Tavington went on with his astonishing tale.

"I turned my back in gentlemanly fashion, while she dressed herself quickly. Robin searched the room for valuables, and Dick went through the man's pockets. I held myself above such commercial transactions, and gave the little girl my arm as we descended the stairs.

"On the counter below was an array of booty. It was divided quickly and roughly into eight parts—and then on Dick's—and my own—insistence, was rearranged to give the little girl a share. By now, the alarm had been given, and we could hear the shouts that the Bow Street Runners were on the way. As we fled the scene we could see them, lanterns weaving at the end of the lane, and we had to run. I stayed with Robin, Dick and the little girl part of the way, but Robin soon headed north, leaving the rest of us behind.

"It did not even occur to me that I had been party to the death of a man—for I never felt any guilt at that monster's death. I knew, however, that it was past ten, and that I should be in great trouble if I were to be caught sneaking into the house at that late hour. And there was the problem of getting Dick and his sister safely home. Dick was not certain of their reception, and told me that they would approach a woman in the house next to theirs."

He was uncertain himself as to how Jane would receive this part of the story, but soldiered on. "We reached the house, which proved to be an abbey." He snorted at Jane's lack of comprehension, and explained. "A brothel—a house of ill-repute." Jane's eyes widened. "The landlady knew Dick and his sister, and had been kind to them in the past. Don't look so surprised," he smiled, seeing her skeptical frown. "Do you not think a brothel keeper might not have a soft spot for children? At any rate, she did, and had them sent to the kitchen to be fed. Then she turned to look at me."

"'What have we here? A young gentleman about the town?' With a gesture, she led me to the best room of the place, and I found myself amongst her customers, many of whom were likewise gentlemen. Chief amongst them, I discovered," he said slowly, "was my own father, drinking at the long table, quite at his ease, with a doxy at either hand."

"Your father! He must have been so embarrassed!"

"Nothing ever embarrassed my father. He stared at me in disbelief, and then shouted for someone to get me a drink. Then he beckoned me over, and asked, 'What are you doing here, sir?'

"I countered with, 'What are _you_ doing here, sir?'

"'Going wrong, my boy. Now tell me, what are you about on a dark night and so fearsomely armed?'

"And the abbess, thinking it all so charming, produced Dick and his sister, who told him something about my heroic deeds in saving her from a wicked old man. All the doxies sighed over me, telling my father what a manly little boy I was. He had had, it appeared, enough entertainment for the night, so he took it upon himself to see me safely home, ordering a sedan chair for each of us, and thus we traveled in state, with linkboys about us carrying their lanterns.

"I was never punished for this escapade, other than my father confiscating what he was pleased to call my 'prize money.' I ought not, he explained, to accept remuneration for an act of chivalry. However strange it sounds, that evening remains my fondest memory of him. He was not a good man, but I was his favorite, for what it was worth, and certain things appealed to his sense of humor."

"But what became of Dick and the little girl? What of the others?"

"I have no idea," he lied, remembering the fate of those that were caught and tried for the murder. "I believe they used their ill-gotten gains to purchase apprenticeships and live honestly thereafter."

Perhaps Robin would have. He had talked about a silversmith he knew who might take him for the right price. Instead, he had died at Tyburn with two of the others, his heels dancing to the hangman's jig. Dick had vanished, perhaps gone to sea, and the little girl was left at the brothel, for whatever fate might hold for her there. Tavington himself, a young gentleman and the nephew of an Earl, was never even questioned. He had gone, as his last act of fellowship, to Tyburn to see them off. His mother, watching from their coach, had found the spectacle rather diverting: his sisters were sorry for the 'poor little boys.' They knew nothing of his involvement, and he loved them the better for their kindness to his erstwhile partners in crime.

Jane sat still for awhile, trying to comprehend such a story. The picture of Tavington as a daring little boy unexpectedly softened her toward him. Tavington took the opportunity to sit closer and put his arm about her. She did smell quite nice, but she was so very thin. Did the girl never eat? He would have to watch her closely at meals to see if there was something wrong with her.

Finally, she said, "That was such an extraordinary story. I can't imagine a little boy of ten having such an adventure. I've never had an adventure at all, and I'm twenty-four."

"Not true, my dear. What do you call our elopement?"

"Oh—yes! I did think, as we were driving in the coach to Charlestown, that that was how having an adventure must feel. I liked it, even though I was worried about what everyone would say." More seriously, she added. "A fear justified by the event."

"Are you sorry?"

"That would be useless and foolish. We _are_ married. There's nothing to be done but make the best of it."

"But that is exactly how _I _feel!" Tavington was relieved that they were understanding one another so well at last. Jane really _was_ a sensible girl.

"Now," he purred, "is there nothing else I can do to please you?"

"The hour grows late," Jane sighed.

"Nonsense, my dear. The night is young."

Shyly, she whispered, "Then, I should like—I should very much like—I wish you to kiss me as you did that night."

"Kiss you?" he murmured in her ear.

"Yes," she answered decisively. "I don't want you to hurt me, but I should like you to kiss me. That was very agreeable. I had never been kissed by a man before."

He laughed again. She had such a direct manner. "Surely, my dear, your father—"

"No. I had never kissed by any man at all. It was interesting. You may do that."

"What charming ideas you have, Jane."

With his free hand he tilted her chin up, and turned his head a little, capturing her mouth with his. It _was_ rather nice, he agreed. With his eyes shut, Jane's lips were as good to kiss as any other woman's, he found. She smelled pleasantly of her favorite scent, and her skin was petal soft under his fingers. He sustained the kiss for some time. Jane did not reject it, but neither did she move. She hummed faintly, but remained motionless, letting him do all the work. That made him smile, and he pulled back to smile more at her expression.

She cleared her throat, and asked outright. "Am I doing it right? Is there something else I ought to be doing?"

He did not laugh at her. "You should do what pleases you. You could try kissing me back."

"I am—a lady. I am not a wanton. I don't want to do wrong."

"Jane," he sighed. "There is no question of such a thing. We are married. It is quite all right to do as we please. Now," he said, "let us try that again. Do as I do."

"Very well," she said, very seriously, like a bookish schoolgirl at her lessons.

Tavington leaned in, and pressed her lips with his again, first the upper, then the lower, and then settled in for a deeper kiss, his mouth slightly open. Jane diligently responded. Tavington could almost hear her thoughts as she sucked lightly at him. It was not bad, though perhaps a little too studied. At least she showed a desire to improve.

"Very nice," he whispered. The room, lit by two candles, was not bright enough to show her blushes, but he sensed that she was warming. "But you need to relax, Jane. I promise I won't hurt you, but try this—"

Catching her about the shoulder, he lowered her back onto the bed, and brushed a stray curl from her cheek. Hesitantly, she put up a hand, not to push him away, as he had first thought, but to touch his shoulder shyly. His face lit in a half-smile. He kissed her again, then, on lips, on cheek, on forehead: soft, light kisses that awakened the blood beneath the soft skin. His lips traveled over that skin, nipping at her ear, trailing along her neck, and breathing softly onto her throat.

Jane looked up at her handsome husband, his face glowing and golden in the magical light of candles. He was smiling, a smile just for her. Her breath came faster, and she felt again that seductive melting thrill. He leaned on his left elbow, lying beside her, and his right hand lay softly on her breast.

She swallowed. "If we do that thing you like, do you promise you won't hurt me? Do you _promise?" _

_Yes,_ he reflected, a _man ought to be magnanimous in victory_. "I promise, Jane. We have all night. I shall wait until you are perfectly prepared. It will not hurt you at all."

-----

_It did not hurt,_ Jane agreed, lying awake in the comfortable bed afterwards. She turned her head, making out the dark shape of her husband. He was in deep sleep, and snoring a little. The sound was not unpleasant—rather like a cat's purring. Jane decided she could live with it. The experience of marital intercourse was still very peculiar, but she now believed she could live with that, too.

It was sweet enough to be kissed by her husband and to hold him in her arms. Sometimes, she felt a brief, exquisite sensation, as if something more lay beyond, but every time she felt it, something distracted her. The walls of their room were so thin: she did not want to cry out something stupid, the way Selina had, that everyone could hear and laugh at. At then, sometimes, she could catch the awful smell of the house, a smell she could not blot out entirely, even by pressing her face to her husband's pulsing throat.

And the way he moved on her made noise. She was terribly conscious of it. The bed creaked, and her husband breathed very heavily as he reached his crisis. She felt some sympathy for him at that moment, for he was obviously in the grip of some instinctive animal passion. She even wondered if it caused him pain, considering how desperately he sought his release. But all in all, it was not so terrible. In fact, it was quite--otherwise...

He had finished, and lain exhausted in her arms. It gave her a little feeling of triumph to feel him so weary, so utterly undone; to hold him as every woman before her had held her man. He had kissed her once more, and murmured kind words before falling sleep. And he was here, and not with Selina, or anyone else.

_It will do well enough_, Jane decided. _And it is so much better than I ever expected. _

-----

**Notes:** In the unexpurgated versions of _The Thousand and One Nights_, Sheherazade's sister Dunyazade slept in her sister's bedroom, and gave her cues for the stories Sheherazade recounted to Sharihar. The poems are: _Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College_ by Thomas Gray, _Sonnet 129_ by William Shakespeare, and _To His Coy Mistress_, by Andrew Marvell.

**Next—Chapter 14: The Lord General's Ball **


	14. The Lord General's Ball

_Disclaimer: Don't own it. Just dancing at the ball._

**Chapter 14: The Lord General's Ball**

Jane quite liked having her husband in the house, she acknowledged: she felt very safe and protected while he was there. The usual abuse was muted by fear of him. Her consultations with her father over household matters were largely conducted with decorum, as if she were a hired housekeeper with whom he had only professional relations. Selina would not even look at her. Jane did not care. Tavington did not look at Selina either, other than to offer her the most essential courtesies. Aunt Alice went through the day with a perpetual air of befuddlement.

The day after Tavington's return, he arose, and Jane watched him shave and dress. It was extraordinarily intimate. He even let her brush out his hair, and he showed her how it needed to be plaited and wrapped with ribbon. What nice hair he had, too. It gave her a pleasant feeling to work with it. William—for he insisted that Jane call himWilliam now, at least when they were alone—told her she was doing very well as a wife.

Letty came in shortly thereafter to help Jane make her toilette. To Jane's discomfiture, her husband insisted on watching the entire process.

Tavington leaned back in the chair, amused at the domestic spectacle. His marital situation was improving. Jane seemed amenable to his tutelage in the pleasant subject of physical intercourse. A bit prudish and timid, but submissive enough. She lacked passion, but perhaps that would come with experience. Her father's house inhibited her, he gathered. Nonetheless, he had had quite an enjoyable time last night, though such relations might become humdrum without more exciting variety. He would be free to seek that variety in due course, but right now, his wife must be given the bulk of his attention. He was satisfied with himself, too, pleased with his own patience and forbearance. He was a very good husband, the sort of husband his father had never been. _Now if Jane is ever persuaded to move below her waist…_

Right now, she was having her hair dressed by her clever—he supposed he must describe her as a maid--Letty. The curls certainly became her and lessened the severity of her air. And her taste in gowns had improved, thought Letty's soft encouragement suggested that she was the source of these attractive innovations.

He searched the two young woman's faces for any resemblance, and discovered little. They must each take much from their mothers, for neither much resembled their father, either. Perhaps, though, that square jaw they shared… He did, however, notice that the fair Letty seemed to dislike him. There was a subtle set of her shoulders, a tendency to avoid passing too close to him that spoke volumes about her uneasiness. She was also clearly afraid of him. He was rather offended at first, since he had not shown her the least unkindness. On reflection, though, he thought he understood. He would have to have a word with her.

And then there was the old nurse Biddy to meet up in the nursery, where Jane presented him her little brother like a queen displaying her greatest treasure. The boy was a healthy, towheaded little fellow to be sure, and his pretty features suggested that he would have his share of his mother's good looks as he matured. Tavington could not quite understand why Jane was so enraptured with the child, since he saw nothing unusually amiable about him, but put it down to having no one else to love. Probably she would be even more conscientious with her own children. The idea made him pleasantly complacent.

The nurse he found far more interesting than the boy. With bronzed skin, hawk-like nose, and a gentle, dignified air, she had all the hallmarks of her Cherokee blood. He could see Africa in her too, in the curl of her hair, her dark expressive eyes, and the fullness of her mouth. He could certainly see why Ashbury Rutledge had fancied her in her youth. She would have been something extraordinary. And he found himself liking her. A capable, trustworthy servant was always valuable, but one simply felt a certain mysterious sense of well-being in Biddy's presence. She belonged to Jane, and now, of course to him. It was very pleasant to think that this warm and loving person would be in charge of his children's nursery.

He left Jane to play with her brother, with the excuse of needing to write a note. He found Letty making the bed as he entered.

"Don't mind me. Go on about your work."

He wrote the note quickly, watching the girl from the corner of his eye. She was a lovely creature, indeed, and had she been anyone else's servant Tavington would have marked her for his own. But she was not someone else's: she was his wife's property according to South Carolina law, and by extension his own.. Undoubtedly, she knew even better than he what that could mean. She was certainly beautiful enough to desire as a mistress. He could take her here and now and no one could say him nay.

And yet, he knew instinctively that this was the one infidelity that Jane would never forgive. She was very fond of this girl, and an affair with her could hardly be kept secret. He had decided that he wanted a friendly coexistence with his wife, and forcing her maid would irrevocably destroy that. _I am not so stupid as to foul my own nest._ No, he was not his father—he would not humiliate his wife by rogering the servants like a careless animal. So what to do?

There was also the fact that the girl was his wife's sister. _Yes—perhaps that's the way of it._ He was very fond of his own sisters, and hated to picture them in such a terrible situation. _Imagine if Lucy…_ His jaw tightened. If he simply thought of this girl as a pretty sister-in-law—as his _sister_—he could suppress any more dangerous regard. Yes—that was it. _She is my wife's natural sister, and under my protection. She is part of my family, though no one else admits it. _

Right now she looked anxious and sad, probably from her proximity to a man she feared. Tavington finished his note, and dried it quickly with sand. Looking up, he decided to deal with the problem at once.

"Letty, I wish to speak to you."

The girl took a deep breath and immediately approached him, eyes humbly cast down. "Yes, Colonel," she whispered. She had a very sweet voice. Tavington smiled, rather charmed by it.

"With my marriage, you and your mother are now part of my household. I have heard from my wife how fond she is of you both, and how precious you are to her. I want you to know from the first that you have nothing to fear from me. I have heard enough in my time in South Carolina to know the ways of masters and slaves." He stood up, and folded his arms with a decisive air.

"Please look me." Seeing her flinch, he repeated, "Yes, look at me. You are quite respectful enough without needing to cower. I am not a Carolinian. I am an Englishman, and have no experience in owning slaves. I prefer to treat you as I would my family's servants at home. Be assured that I will not sell you, or harm you in any way. I give you my word of honor."

Letty was very frightened at being so addressed. She could hardly understand what Miss Jane's husband was saying to her. She tried to control her trembling, expecting to be thrown to the bed and ravaged at any moment. She had rather he said nothing than take particular notice of her like this. The Colonel, however, kept talking in a soft voice. He kept reassuring her that he would not use her ill or sell her. _His word—since when did a master care if he kept his word to a slave or not?_ That was just odd. She would have to keep an eye on him. At least he seemed to be kinder to Miss Jane now. After a few more words he dismissed her, not noticing the longing look she cast at the little spinet, which she would not be able to play until he was safely gone back to his war.

-----

Jane had great hopes for the ball. She had a beautiful new gown; she was assured of dancing at least three times with her husband; two more sets had been promised to his captains; and she would see many of her pleasantest relations. Above all, Tavington's presence at the ball and his promised attentions would quiet the ugliest speculations about their marriage.

The five of them crowded into the carriage, which was really only meant to carry four, and rode in impenetrable silence. Her father's face was set in stone; Selina's in ice. Aunt Alice was her mildly confused self. Jane stole a glance at her husband, who looked quite equal to anything the Rutledges could attempt. He was smirking, in fact. Jane was glad he was not smirking at her. It was such a comfort that he was so courteous and attentive to her in public. Even if it was done purely to spite her father and Selina, it was enough to please Jane. _Actually,_ she admitted to herself, _I feel rather spiteful myself._

She looked at Selina's expanding waist, and smiled sweetly. Her stepmother was having a hard time with this pregnancy, and Jane admitted a mean satisfaction. Selina could not dance tonight, though she still looked quite beautiful enough to turn any number of heads. Her white satin gown caught the light and reflected it back like polished mother-of –pearl. Around her neck, Selina wore a new diamond necklace. Jane felt nothing but contempt for her doting father. _A fool and his money soon are parted._

Other carriages were arriving along with theirs. Jane found herself in a mob of relations and acquaintances, all eager to see how her husband treated her in public. Tavington's face, lit with a little condescending smile, seemed to Jane better-looking than ever. He was a prince, the handsome prince of all girls' dreams. _If only I were a more creditable Cinderella._

She could not exult in him for long, however. The Lord General had not yet made an appearance—which Jane thought very remiss of him—and instead sent a message to Tavington summoning him. With a faint grimace of distaste, her husband made his apologies to her.

"Duty calls, Jane. I must find out what crime the Lord General wishes to accuse me of this evening. I shall do my best not to miss our dance." He left quickly, a swift, lithe figure making his way easily among the huge skirts of the ladies and the portly shapes of the older men. Jane watched him until he passed from sight. _Whatever his faults,_ _I shall never tire of looking at him._ Then her attention was claimed, and she forced herself into cheerfulness.

-----

Tavington emerged from his meeting from the Lord General feeling rather bruised. Scorn had been heaped upon his head, but he had been given no chance to defend himself. Once again, Cornwallis was making Tavington the scapegoat for his own failure. What was needed was to move aggressively against the scattered militia bands: to crush them and the communities that supported them—to fight them now and here, and end the menace quickly, before the infection could spread. He did not allow himself to think that it might all be too late.

He _was _almost too late for the opening dances. There was Jane, waiting for him patiently—or at least, not allowing her impatience to show. Her composure in public was really admirable, and her appearance tonight very, very elegant.

"Forgive me," he said quietly in her ear, almost startling her. "The Lord General was too busy berating me for me to escape easily."

"How alike we are," said his wife dryly. "I have just been berated by my father. Perhaps it would be refreshingly novel for him to berate you and the Lord General me, instead."

He snorted, and led her to the dance.

Jane danced very nicely, and her long limbs did her appearance no harm. Tavington liked her new gown, peacock blue, with a silver petticoat. Her peacock feather fan swung easily from her thin little wrist. Once again, she was, if not pretty, at least very elegant and fashionable.

"I did like the pink gown, but this is very nice as well."

"I wanted to wear the other, but Letty was horrified at the idea of wearing a gown that so many might recognize. She chose this."

"A jewel amongst maids."

Jane laughed, "Very true." She almost mentioned the music lessons, but then held her tongue. Perhaps an English gentleman of his connections would find teaching a slave music too shocking. What might he say about the evenings spent lying about on their beds reading and talking?

"Your necklace—" He looked again. Jane did not usually wear her gowns cut so low. She was wearing a gold chain with a pendant—no! That was the ring he had given her. "I am surprised you did not have the ring fitted. I had not noticed before that you were not wearing it."

"The goldsmith told me it would ruin it to cut it down. I bought this to have something on my hand," she replied, displaying the thin gold band on her thin finger. "I decided to keep your ring intact and wear it thus. I think it looks well enough so."

"Yes—it just surprised me. But you are right. It was absurd of me not to find you a proper ring. Forgive my carelessness. My only excuse is that I had never before needed to provide a woman with a wedding ring. I plead my inexperience."

"I will accept you plea of inexperience if you will accept mine."

He laughed. "It seems equitable enough!"

There were many introductions to be made. Jane had met Lord Cornwallis briefly, but not since she was married. Tavington, seeing his commander near, bit his lip and decided that he owed to himself and to Jane to force the Earl to take note of her. He tucked her arm into his, and stepped forward for the presentation.

"My lord. May I present my wife, Mrs. Tavington, the former Jane Rutledge?"

Jane knew that Tavington did not much like the man. She had guessed that the feeling was mutual. It was evident, in fact, from the distant expression on the older man's face, that he took little pleasure in making her acquaintance. He was a polite man, however: too polite to be rude to a lady. He bowed courteously.

"Mrs. Tavington. Your servant, Madam. I wish you all joy of your marriage."

"Thank you, my lord. You are most kind."

That was all. Jane thought it quite enough, and did not quite understand why Tavington looked so irritated as he led her away.

"What is wrong?" she asked.

"The insolent dog!" he hissed. "How dare he treat you so slightingly!"

"He was civil enough." Jane sighed to herself. It was not exactly her fault, but she knew from long experience that if she had been pretty, the Lord General would have taken a moment to speak to her, even if he did not like Tavington. The Lord General had admired Selina, and spoken graciously to her. Such were the privileges accorded the very beautiful, and it was just the way of the world. Jane gave Tavington a smile and a shrug to let him know she did not care.

Another officer noticed them and wished to be introduced. This was General O'Hara, a very good-looking man. He greeted her husband coolly, and Jane guessed that here was another who was no admirer of William Tavington. The general bowed courteously over her hand however, and kindly wished her happiness in marriage. Jane would have liked him better, if she had not seen him, a few minutes later, talking with a few other superior officers and glancing discreetly her way with what looked like a pitying expression. One of the men answered the General a little louder than the rest, and Jane heard the words, "—for her money, poor girl." She looked away, and tried to hear nothing more from that quarter.

Captain Bordon came to claim his dances. He was as pleasant as ever, and full of bits of army news—not tiresome "tactics" or "grand strategy," but the sort of little things that Tavington rarely wrote or talked about, but which interested Jane. If it had been left to her husband, she would not have known how the soldiers got their food—no, their _rations_—or who cooked it, or how their laundry was done. Bordon had a fund of such stories of camp life, and they amused her very much, with the picture it gave her of her reserved, serious husband commanding not only his own regiment, but the wives and children and servants who followed them wherever they went. Jane considering asking if she could join him in the backcountry. It sounded rather diverting, the way Captain Bordon described it.

Their dances over, she found herself a seat by some other young women. Her cousin Eleanor Cotesworth was there, wanting to know if what everyone was saying about Tavington was _true._

"I don't know. What _is_ everyone saying about him?"

"My dear Jane!" The sweet-faced Eleanor lowered her voice to an excited whisper. "They say he is a _dangerous man_. I have heard that he slaughters the rebels without a _shred_ of mercy. He disregards flags of truce and shoots little boys and—"

"Yes, it's all true," Jane said, straight-faced. "He finds their flavor particularly delicate."

Another cousin, Emily Rhett, gave a shocked gurgle and then poked Jane's corseted ribs. "Don't joke about such a thing, Jane! Everyone's is still talking about the soldiers he killed at Waxhaws. At Camden he's said to have accounted for a dozen men personally! He seems so dignified—so noble, even! Could he _really_ be so ruthless?"

A memory of her wedding night made Jane shiver. "Well, yes, I imagine he could be—sometimes."

Her cousins gasped with shock, tinged, Jane perceived, with just a touch of envy.

Emily put her hand on Jane's. "You must introduce us."

Jane sighed. "Very well."

Jane introduced him to quite a few of her relations, mostly women. Tavington was very civil with all of them, but somewhat bemused at their interest. Jane wondered if she ought to tell him later that they were all aflutter at the prospect of meeting a _dangerous man_. Her Cousin Mary Laurens was there, sitting with a group of older matrons and widows. There was a brief introduction, but Jane knew that her husband had not come to a ball to pay court to white-haired ladies. After awhile, Jane decided to let him enjoy the dancing, and wandered off into the gardens for some blessed privacy. Even there, the sounds of assignations punctuated the silence.

From a seat among the camellias, she watched Selina collect a coterie of admiring men about her. The ball had been quite a triumph for her stepmother. Aunt Alice remained at her side, her best protections against ill-natured gossip. Jane felt a little satisfaction. If Selina had learned discretion, it was certainly all for the best.

Her father moved among the male guests—nearly entirely among the civilians. Jane knew her father would never miss a business opportunity, but something in the way he whispered and threw watchful glances at the British made her wonder if his business was partly political. She wearily hoped he would do nothing to harm or embarrass her.

She walked around the house, through the gardens. The faint sounds of a merry fiddle drifted through the climbing roses. She guessed it was their own Silas, playing for his fellow slaves, as they had their own impromptu dance out of their masters' sight. She followed the sounds of music, singing, and uproarious laughter around a corner and saw them then, whirling and stamping with tremendous joy around a cheerful bonfire. Silas, their old quiet coachman, was a king in this company, calling out the figures in a commanding, resonant voice she had never before heard. Jane crept a little closer, sure she would not be heard over the music and hand-clapping. All in all, it looked like their slaves were doing a better job than their masters at enjoying themselves. She sighed, and turned away. There was no place for her there.

The hours dragged on. Jane grew tired of observing the crowd and moved back into the ballroom. It was nearly time for the supper dances, and she would be able to talk with her husband at the table.

"Cousin Jane!" called out one of Selina's young Pinckney cousins, who was staying with an aunt in Charlestown for protection, even though her father and brothers were with the rebels up north. Jane turned and smiled at the girl, on whom Selina's golden hair shaded to a more ordinary shade of dark ash blonde.

"Betsy, how are you? I had not heard you were out."

"I'm not really, but Aunt Eliza said I could come anyway. Papa will never know. I adore your gown. You look very nice tonight."

Jane was pleased and touched at the compliment, which meant more to her than insincere words from Lord Cornwallis.

Betsy nodded toward Tavington, dancing a reel with strength and grace. "Your husband is so handsome."

Jane did not know if she should thank the girl for making this observation or not. Her husband's good looks were in no way due to Jane. "Yes, he is. Very."

"Do you like being married?"

An innocent, damnably innocent question. Jane had no idea what to say. She was not yet sure if she really liked being married or not. _When in doubt, lie politely._ "Yes, of course."

"I wasn't sure. He's very handsome, but sometimes he has a look about him that I think I would find rather unnerving. Of course, he's a stranger, isn't he? I'd be afraid to marry someone like him."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean—he's not related to us, and nobody here knows his family. After the war, do you think you'll go to England?"

"I don't know. Maybe so."

Betsy was very solemn. "You might never see your family ever again. Have you thought of that?"

"I have, actually."

The dance had ended, and Tavington looked around for her. Their dance, the one just before the late supper, was next. Betsy was eager for a closer look at Jane's husband, but hung back a little. Tavington saw the pretty young girl by his wife, and guessed—without much difficulty—that she was yet another of Jane's inexhaustible supply of female relations.

"Your servant, ma'am."

Betsy curtsied, with a little choking noise. Tavington rolled his eyes at Jane and gave her his arm.

It was pleasant to be dancing again. Jane felt she had done enough to indulge the curiosity of her family connections. Mary Laurens would have been better company, but sitting with the chaperones tonight would have exposed to her to ruthless questioning from those less well-bred than Mary. It was strange to feel that her husband might be more congenial company that her own kin.

But none of her kin ever looked so handsome, or appeared so to advantage in the act of dancing. Jane wondered if her head was in danger of being turned again. Tavington was doing his best to be agreeable to her—smiling, and talking, and not acting as if he were ashamed of her. When the dance was over and he escorted her to the supper table, Jane was ready to explode with her need to talk about their future_. I cannot wait until we are home,_ she decided. _We shall all be too tired. I must have it out with him now._

He poured her a glass of Madeira—a good glass, not the thimbleful of wine mixed in a tumbler of water to which she was accustomed. He was ordering her plate loaded with far more than she ever ate. She sipped and nibbled obediently, trying to do justice to the feast before her, but it was useless. She set down her glass, and blurted out what was uppermost in her mind.

"I was surprised to see you again."

He had been distracted by the chatter of a couple who had passed by, but this remark caught his attention.

With a touch of incredulity, he smiled. "Did you think so little of me that a mob of rebels could kill me off in the space of a summer?"

She was embarrassed at her lack of tact, but could not stop. "I did not mean that. I meant that I was surprised you had not returned to England."

His smile faded, and his brows knit with his perplexity. "My dear Jane! Without you?"

She stared at the polished floor. "Well—yes. I thought—since I did not have a settlement, and there is nothing to prevent you—"

He lifted her chin with a fingertip and looked in her eyes. "I have not the least intention of leaving you behind."

Jane thought she might burst into tears of relief.

"You're going to take me with you—do you _promise_?"

"Yes, yes, of course, Jane," he answered, exasperated at having to repeat himself. "What did you think I would do? Snatch at your money like a bandit and run away to England?"

She paused, trembling, and Tavington then realized that that was _exactly_ what she had thought. She turned her head aside, her eyes full of unshed tears. Tavington growled, annoyed, and stabbed an unlucky oyster with his fork.

"And why would I do anything so dishonorable and so stupid? I hope to rehabilitate my family name, not plunge it deeper in disgrace! I would not have married you if I had not intended to be your husband."

She whispered, a thin thread of sound, "Not even for twenty thousand pounds?"

"No." He twitched a wry smile, and shrugged. "Maybe for fifty."

She did not find that amusing, and he shook his head, trying not to laugh at her. "Believe me, Jane, I consider ours a binding marriage. When the war is over I fully intend for us to live together. For obvious reasons, I cannot give you a day or a time. I don't _know_ when the war will be over."

"I could join you at camp. Captain Bordon says there are other officers' wives---"

"Absolutely not. You wouldn't last a week, living in those conditions."

"Then let me go stay with one of my relatives," she begged. Seeing him unmoved, she tried harder. "You said yourself you could see how unpleasant it is for me at home. I'm not suggesting that I go into the country, where everything is so unsettled. I could stay with my widowed cousin Mary Laurens. She lives on Bay Street, not a quarter of a mile from my father's house. I would still be in Charlestown, surrounded by the garrison. I'd be perfectly safe with her. Let us call on her tomorrow. She's very nice: I know you'd like her."

"We can talk more about it, at least. Now try to eat another crab pattie."

His grudging tone gave Jane some hope. He was considering it. The music was beginning again. The dancers were called from the supper room to resume the next set of dances. Captain Wilkins claimed her for these, and she took his arm, looking back anxiously at her husband, as he strolled about the garden, wineglass in hand. Eleanor Cotesworth was coming to talk to him again, this time with Mary Bull, who wanted to meet the man who had seduced Jane Rutledge into an elopement. She was a silly girl, too, but not the worst of her relations, and Jane did her best to pay proper attention to her partner.

The music was very fine. Jane had not danced since the ball at Cedar Hill, and found herself enjoying it very much. At Cedar Hill, she had had the responsibility (if not the name) of hostess, but here there was nothing but enjoyment. Captain Wilkins was really too tall to be a perfectly satisfactory partner, but he was a handsome man, and a surprisingly graceful dancer, given his size.

She had just opened her mouth to make some remark about the ball, when an explosion rattled the windows. Fragile wineglasses on a nearby table trembled and spun on their bases, shattering as they fell to the floor. The music squeaked and faltered to a stop, smothered by the frightened questions of everyone in the room, rushing to the doors and the windows to see what had happened. Captain Wilkins gave Jane his arm, and placed his big frame between her and the mob of onlookers, trying to keep her from being crushed in the excitement. In a moment, Wilkins had pushed his way through the door by main force, and the two of them stepped out into the starry night.

Jane looked where everyone else was looking, but she could see only heads of men taller than she, and smoke high up in the sky above the water. She laid her hand on Wilkins' sleeve, and pleaded, "What it is? What has happened?"

He leaned down toward her to make himself heard above the din. "A ship exploded out in the harbor. Might be an accident. Might be the work of rebels."

"How horrible! Do you suppose anyone was hurt?"

Wilkins scowled. "I'm sure of it. Here, ma'am: let's find the Colonel for you. I reckon the ball will break up, and he may want to you get on home."

It did not take long. Wilkins' great height made him able to see what Jane could not, and in a few moments, he had spotted Tavington and escorted Jane to his side.

Her husband, she could see, was very much discomposed by the incident. He spared her a sharp glance, and was more civil than usual in his thanks to Wilkins. He took Jane's arm himself, hurrying her away.

"Let us find your father. I daresay he will want to leave."

Evidently her father did. He had taken care that his own carriage should be ordered as quickly as possible, and was gently prying Selina away from some other excited ladies. Tavington turned her over to her father's care.

"You are not coming home with us?" Jane asked, concerned.

"No—there's too much to do tonight. We must assess the casualties and the damage to the cargo. There were arms aboard the ship, and some of the Lord General's own possessions. He's likely to be very displeased at their loss. I shall not return for some time, probably."

He seemed eager to be rid of her so he could attend to more serious matters. With a cursory bow, he was on his way, talking animatedly with another officer. Jane turned and found her family already dashing off to the carriage. It took some effort to catch up and not be left behind. As it was, her companions gave her dark looks as she climbed up the steps and took her seat facing her father and stepmother. Jane could not decide if they were accusing her of collusion with the rebels, or rebuking her for her failure to personally defend the ship. Either was equally ridiculous, and she ignored them.

From the height the carriage seat gave her, she could see the harbor, and little boats being rowed out to the ruins of the ship. Debris was floating in the water, and clouds of grey smoke drifted south on the night breeze. There was a strong smell of rotten eggs in the air, the signature scent of gunpowder. Then Silas chirruped to the horses, and they turned away, toward home. Jane smiled absently at Aunt Alice, who patted her hand, probably to comfort herself as much as Jane. She looked out the window as they passed through the streets, seeing twinkling lights from behind closed shutters, and an uncommon number of lit windows where people had opened them to find out the cause of the unnatural thunder. Voices chattered from the houses, as neighbor called to neighbor. Jane shut her eyes and leaned back in her seat, sorry that this ball had not been any better than the one at Cedar Hill, after all.

-----

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**Next--Chapter 15: A New Accomplishment**


	15. A New Accomplishment

_Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to The Patriot. I don't mind._

**Chapter 15: A New Accomplishment**

Jane had no idea when her husband returned to the house. Her eyes opened, as she became aware of a warm and heavy arm draped over her, and a very masculine body occupying most of the bed. The morning sun slanted into her east window, already at a steep angle. It was past time for her to be up and about her duties. Inch by inch, she slid out from between the sheets, and drew the curtains around the sleeping man.

Letty came in, and Jane, with a warning finger to her lips, cautioned her to silence. Without a word, Letty laced her into her stays, and helped her dress in the gown of the day. Jane sat at the dressing table so Letty could undo the curling rags, and see the state of Jane's hair.

Tavington slept through it all. He was snoring softly again. Jane began to find it a little funny, and in the mirror she saw that Letty's lips were twitching in merriment. From time to time the snoring grew louder, and the two girls would pause in their hairdressing, on the verge of laughter. Finally, there was a loud snort, and then the snoring stopped. Tavington's voice, muzzy with sleep, croaked, "Good God. What is the time?"

"Nearly nine, Colonel. I was just going down to breakfast, as soon as Letty finishes with my hair." She hoped he was awake enough to hear that Letty was in the room, lest he emerge prematurely from the curtained bed.

"Not that I wish to injure the delicacy of either you or your maid, but I would very much appreciate someone handing me my clothes."

There was a little hunting and a little bustle, while Jane and Letty sought out clean linen and a uniform. Jane walked around to the other side of the bed, and presented the clothing to Tavington, who was sliding out on the side away from Letty, tousled, heavy-eyed, and naked.

"Thank you, Jane." He glanced up and saw that her hair was brushed and curled, but not yet arranged up and under a cap. The curls were loose on her shoulders and down her back. "That's a very pretty way to wear your hair."

She laughed. "A very improper way to go about, as if I were a little girl."

"No," he said, smiling. "I like it. It's very nice. Someday, when you are no longer worried about what everyone in this house thinks, you should wear it like that all day."

She shook her head, embarrassed, and left him to dress. Letty set to work once more, and the hair was bestowed quickly under an elegant gauze cap, trimmed with lace and rose-pink ribbons. By the time Tavington was dressed enough to emerge, Letty was finished and had slipped from the room.

Tavington rolled his eyes. "You'd think I was about to bite her. I've told the girl she has nothing to fear from me, but she plainly doesn't take me at my word."

"You must give her time."

"Like mistress, like maid."

Embarrassed, she looked away, but she did not leave for breakfast, preferring to watch her husband at his toilette. The way he fearlessly handled the razor fascinated her. Sharp as it was, it made her shiver to imagine it near her own skin, but Tavington thought nothing of it. The little scratching, hissing noises of blade cutting off the stiff hairs soon stopped, and the razor was rinsed in the wash water. He splashed his face, and Jane handed him the towel. She reached for his brush, hoping he would permit her to see to his hair. It seemed he would; and he sat at the dressing table, while she brushed out the dark tangles.

"I hope you did not have to stay up very late last night, " she remarked. "I did not hear you come in."

"Good. I was doing my best not to disturb you. We were at it until past four. As I thought, the ship was attacked by a band of rebels. They stole some uniforms and sneaked aboard the vessel. Half a dozen sailors were killed and another dozen wounded."

"How horrible. The Navy must be more careful."

A sardonic laugh. "Not the Navy, Jane. _I_ must be more careful. The Lord General tore strips off me for the affair."

"You! But that is absurd. How could it possibly be your fault?"

"Oh, it isn't my fault. However, Cornwallis doesn't want to lose the goodwill of the senior service. It is more convenient to lay everything at my door. My commander was particularly put out because I had had the arms unloaded first, leaving his personal possessions—mainly clothing-- for later. Those were destroyed with the ship."

"That's absurd. Even _I_ know that arms and ammunition are more important than clothes, and I'm a perfect fool about military things."

His smile sweetened. "Hardly a perfect fool."

"An _imperfect_ fool, then. And I think—"

He was laughing now, amused and pleased, and he caught her chin with a fingertip, bringing her face down to his. His lips pressed hers softly in a quick kiss. "Not any sort of fool, my Jane. You're quite a sensible girl. It's one of your chief charms." He nodded approvingly at her work with his hair, and reached for his coatee.

Thinking this a favorable moment to introduce the subject uppermost in her mind, Jane asked, "Have you given any more thought to my staying with my cousin Mary?"

Tavington's relaxed expression abruptly changed. He frowned, becoming instantly the condescending being who so vexed Jane. "There seems little need to consider the matter further. After last night, I would be mad to permit it."

"Oh!" Jane could have cried with disappointment. "Please—"

"No!" He cut her off firmly. "I don't want to hear another word about it. I'm not going to let you risk yourself in a household full of unprotected women. The subject is closed. Let us go down to breakfast, and plague your father."

-----

He was not in Jane's good books that day. She sulked at breakfast, and he noticed something about her then that he had wondered about for some time. While she set about marshalling the kitchen slaves, Tavington spent some time writing letters, and then decided to become better acquainted with the people who mattered most to his wife. He had felt some curiosity about them, and so he climbed the stairs to the garret floor, and found the nursery. It was silent, and Biddy greeted him calmly, as if she had known him all his life.

He asked, "Is the boy asleep?"

"Yes, Colonel." Biddy smiled fondly at the small body, sprawled in happy abandon on the bed. "He's having his nap. Such a good boy. He eats and sleeps and all just like he ought."

That gave him an opening. "Not much like my wife, I imagine."

Biddy cocked her head, and looked at him with more respect. Here was someone who had actually looked at her mistress. "Miss Jane's always been too thin, but she had a good appetite when she was a little girl. When she became a young lady, though, she sort of stopped eating. That was about the time she started running the house, and Mister Rutledge got on to her about what he wanted for his meals. I tell Miss Jane she needs to eat, but she don't like to be greedy. 'Self-indulgent,' she calls it. It just makes her frown when I tell her she's too thin, so I stopped. I guess she felt that was one thing she could have her way about."

It was an interesting insight. "Well, Biddy, I'm glad to find you agree with me. Mrs. Tavington _is_ too thin. I am concerned for her health, especially if she were to try to carry a child. I must ask you and Letty to look after her and see that she eats properly. Nag her if you must, and if she doesn't like it, tell her that you are under my orders. Her father is demanding and excessive at table, true: but that is no good reason to starve herself. I will speak to her before I leave."

And he did, that very night. It was a delicate matter. He could not politely tell his wife that she was uncomfortably bony to lie upon when they made love; but he could address the matter as a point of concern about her health. She did not, unsurprisingly, like it.

"I hate gluttony," she replied sharply. "It's so disgusting. Papa insists on all those dishes on the table at once, and always at least two courses. It's a horrible waste of food, and it just puts me off."

"My dear Jane," he said impatiently. "You must not let your father control your life so. When we have our own household, I have no objection to a moderate table when we dine _en famille_. In the meantime, however, not everything you do should be a reaction to things you dislike about your current home." He stopped, just before he could blunder into his next thought. _Just because Selina is a wanton, you need not be a prude._ Selina was a forbidden subject between them. He was grateful to Jane for not upbraiding him for such a piece of folly. Every appearance of that woman, gravid and eyeing him with indecorous sentimentality, was a reproach to his good sense and taste. He would make no odious comparisons of her to his wife.

Another tactic might be more effective. "If you are with child, you will need proper nourishment. You would not withhold food from your helpless infant, I hope, because you wish to tacitly rebuke your father's greed."

Shocked, she cried, "Oh, no! Of course not!" She had never considered the matter in such a light. If it were for the sake of a child, of course she could manage to eat a little more. That point alone seemed valid to her. Tavington saw that hehad made an impression, and left the matter for another day. It was far more to the point at the moment to teach her the pleasures of the marriage bed. And there were whole regions of her body he had not yet touched. No time like the present.

And Biddy did her part too, the next day, mentioning the difficulties some women who were badly nourished had in conceiving. Jane longed for her own baby, and did not want to erect any barriers between herself and that most desired goal.

-----

The visit to Cousin Mary Laurens did not go particularly well. Tavington had already made up his mind against Jane's staying there, and was not swayed by Cousin Mary's charming house, a home so obviously uninhabited by men. Nor did Tavington and Cousin Mary take to one another: Tavington's vital presence reduced the pretty parlor to a fussy old lady's collection of silly fripperies. Jane worked hard, trying to steer the conversation to music or books, but their tastes were so far apart that it was nearly useless. Tavington paced the floor restlessly, and then stood glaring at the shelf of figurines in a way that made Cousin Mary extremely unsettled.

It was a great disappointment to Jane. Here she had hoped to present him with at least one relation whom he could like and respect, and it had all gone awry. The expressions on their faces as they made their farewells declared their impressions of each other all too clearly: Cousin Mary judged Tavington to be hardly better than a wild beast, and Tavington considered Mrs. Laurens an insipid and pretentious provincial. It was certain that her husband would not be giving her permission to live here anytime soon.

----- 

After two dinner parties, the first hosted by Lord Rawdon, the next by General O'Hara, Jane felt well acquainted with the senior Army officers in Charlestown. She and Tavington were established as a couple, and she was feeling increasingly confident that her husband regarded her as a fixture in his life.

Her father wanted to show Cornwallis some attention while the Lord General was in Charlestown. To Jane's relief, it was not something so irksome as a ball. Instead, his lordship was invited to an evening card party at the house on Queen Street. After this party, and a dinner hosted by the Lord General the following night, Tavington would return to his regiment. Jane admitted to herself that she would be sorry when he left. Despite all the ambivalent and confusing feelings he aroused in her, he was surprisingly conversable, and most importantly, protected her from the hostility of Papa and Selina.

The affair went surprisingly well. Jane felt there were more whist tables than the parlor could comfortably hold, but everyone seemed to appreciate the elegance of the light refreshments she had arranged for the occasion. The Lord General, as usual, enjoyed looking at Selina. Her stepmother—and her father—were on their best behavior. Rutledge had heard of the tension between Cornwallis and his son-in-law, and was anxious that it do himself no harm.

However, Cornwallis was too well-bred a man to insult a man on his home ground, and he and Tavington were perfectly civil, when they could not discreetly avoid one another. Rutledge was satisfied that this most important guest was not lumping him in with a disliked subordinate. His interests were clearly distinct from those of the Tavingtons.

Jane found it mildly pleasant, too. She cared nothing for cards herself, but took turns with some of the ladies entertaining the other guests with music. Two of the Rhett sisters actually had good voices, and a decent repertory of glees and duets. Her husband seemed to be having an agreeable time playing cards with his own officers, though she hated to see him lose money.

_I shall never comprehend the pleasures of the gaming table._ It was young Betsy's turn to perform, which she did with some credit. Jane took a quick survey to see if everything was going well. The clock chimed ten, and she wondered if they would ever leave.

The soldiers were talking endlessly of the war. Each had his own idea for trouncing the rebels; but the Lord General was keeping his counsel and concentrating on his winning hand. Jane understood more of it than she had a few months ago, but it was still as dull as watching grass grow. Listening to them, Jane was convinced that if she put her head down on the table, she would be instantly asleep. She reached into her workbasket for a bit of embroidery while Aunt Alice played dance music of twenty years before.

At last they were gone. Papa and Selina went upstairs at once. Jane set the slaves to cleaning the downstairs rooms, and told Tavington she was retiring for the night. He looked around at her, and poured her a glass of wine.

"Drink this first, if you please."

She had never drunk so much as she had since his return. She asked, "Are you trying to make me tipsy?"

"My dear Jane, if you are overset by one glass of wine, you have a constitution that nothing can save. I think it will relax you. Now drink it down, and I shall join you shortly." His own glass of brandy was still half-full, and he seemed in no hurry to finish it.

Once upstairs, Jane had Letty undress her right away; glad to put off the heavy, hot finery, to brush out and curl her hair, and to deal quickly with the excessive amount of tea—and wine--she had drunk that night. With all of this dispatched successfully, she bade Letty a quiet goodnight, and crawled into bed to await her husband. The wine had warmed her, and her thoughts were pleasant as she settled down to rest.

In fact, he came soon. Grown bolder with each night, Jane watched him undress. It was certainly a very disturbing and enticing sight. Tavington noticed his wife's interest and raised an amused brow. She looked away, embarrassed.

"_A cat can look at a king_, as they say, Jane," he teased. "You can certainly look at your own husband."

She did not reply immediately, uncomfortably certain that she must have a very silly look on her face.

Finally, to say something, she remarked, "You will be gone in two days. Such a long journey for such a brief visit."

"The Lord General would have it so," he shrugged, tossing his shirt aside. Her husband, it seemed, had a liking for sleeping completely unclothed. Jane had never heard of such behavior, but she could hardly order him to put something on. It was unfortunate, for there were things she would like to discuss with him in private, and it was difficult to talk sensibly with a naked man.

"Once more into the backcountry," she mused. "It sounds so wild—so utterly uncivilized. I can't understand the war out there. How can you all be fighting over something so undesirable?"

Tavington laughed, as he sometimes did when she said something he thought very droll. "A matter of high strategy, Jane. One can't let the rebels have the undesirable bits, or they would use them as bases to launch attacks on the low country, which England would not care to lose. Besides, there's nothing wrong with the _country,_ just the bandits and rebels and their depredations."

In a few minutes he was in her bed, an arm around her, with that look he had, the one that told her he was in an amorous mood. His breath fluttered warmly in her hair, and she caught the whiff of brandy. He played with the drawstring of her nightshift. "This is perfectly absurd, Jane. Take off this ridiculous garment and let me pay proper attention to you."

Ever more embarrassed, she considered, and then asked, "Might we not put out the candles again? I think it would be easier for me."

He blew out an impatient breath. "If you like." He slid out of bed, to go over to the dressing table and snuff out the candle there. The room darkened noticeably, and when he paused by the bed table, and snuffed the other, it became suddenly pitch black. She felt him climb back into the wide bed, and reach out for her. She sighed, and obediently pulled the nightshift off, folding it neatly over the footboard. She lay curled on her side, and immediately felt his warm muscular arm clasp her against him. She shivered in nervous anticipation, wondering what would be required of her tonight. Dutifully she began to turn toward him, but he held her fast, his warm front spooning distractingly against her back.

"No. Don't move." His hand wandered, seeking her small breasts; tweaking one, then the other. Jane thought she would go mad. She would not make a sound. She must submit, but she must always remember that she was a lady, and not a wicked wanton, but he had his finger between her legs now, and touched her. He did this often, and she was becoming accustomed to the strange feelings they awakened in her. In fact, sometimes they were—she had to admit—_pleasant._ And tonight…

She smothered a squeak, and bit her pillow. She wanted to shout at him to hurry and get it over with—not to draw this out. But he seemed bent on torture, and would not withdraw any part of himself from her.

"Come, my Jane," he purred. "There's no shame in this. It's what you are made for." His breath was warm on her neck, and his voice dropped to a whisper that tickled her bare skin. "You promised to _love_ me." His fingers strayed deep, stoking a wetness idly up and down, in and out.

She thought she wanted him to stop, but then, thank God, he did not. The stroking quickened, grew insistent, and Jane was suddenly seized with a shaking, like a series of hiccoughs, and she found herself muffling her startled cry into the bolster. Her hand caught at her husband's, pressing it close, until the sensations grew almost agonizing. She went limp, and took a deep breath of relief.

"I am—sorry," she gasped, bewildered. "I think I was having a fit of some sort, but I feel much better now."

Tavington rolled away and laughed helplessly. He heard her little hiss of outrage, and fought to control his amusement. Putting a hand on her shoulder, he pulled her onto her back, and lay on top of her, holding her fast. "My pure and innocent bride," he breathed, "that was not a fit. You were having a climax—an orgasm."

Her silence betrayed no hint of comprehension. He forced himself not to laugh at her again. "A paroxysm of venereal pleasure. It is perfectly natural, and indeed something I had been hoping to stimulate since the night we were married."

"Normal? Really? That is very—odd. I am not ill?"

"No. You are perfectly well." He nuzzled her slender neck and began sliding into her, very pleasurably. Her release had eased his way, and he took his time, feeling that such a turning point in their relations deserved some celebration. And with a little more care on his part, and a little more encouragement, she did too. And this time it was clearly no fit.

"Oh!" She could not bear to make any more noise, for fear of alerting others in the house to her situation. What if they knew about it? Her anxiety cut the moment short. But still, it was something new, and she lay beside her husband, wondering why everything always had to be kept such a mystery from young women. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and she could make out dim shapes. She glanced over at Tavington, who appeared perfectly comfortable and relaxed, eyes shut, a satisfied smile on his face. He must have known about this for a long time. Possibly when she first broached the idea of their marriage, he had been thinking about doing this with her. She did not know if she liked that or not. But at least she was finding her duty very agreeable. Perhaps, if they were alone, and not within earshot of her father, she might do even better…

-----

They awakened to the last day of his visit. Tavington was determined to make good use of his time, amused and pleased by his success in bringing his cool young Jane to the boil. She was rather embarrassed at her nakedness, and huddled under the sheet, wincing at the pale green light that suffused though the delicate bed curtains. Nonetheless, at his demand, she yielded herself up to more experiments.

"Why must you hold the pillow over your face, you silly girl? You're like to smother."

She confessed her anxiety to him. "I'm so afraid someone will hear me and know what we're doing."

He snorted, and rolled her over onto her stomach. Her flanks were far too thin, but the skin there was as velvet-soft as the rest of her, and he smoothed and stroked it with real enjoyment, smirking as she mewed and wriggled as his light touch tickled and teased her.

"What does it matter if they hear us? Everyone knows what we're doing anyway."

"Oh!" She started up, trying to escape. "Do you really think so? How horrible!"

He held her ruthlessly, kneeling between her legs, and continue to explore her interesting folds and shadows. "There's nothing horrible about it! You must stop this silly prudery. We are doing exactly as we ought. I have no idea where you got your notions about all of this being wicked, but you must put them entirely out of your head. This is one of life's greatest pleasures. It is perfectly honorable within marriage, and in fact it is something that is important to do well." A questing finger punctuated his remarks, drawing another squeak from Jane. She trembled, her body softening.

"You mean," she quavered, "that it's like an accomplishment, like music and French?"

Tavington was glad she could not see the grin on his face. She would never forgive him. "Yes, my dear," he soothed. "Exactly so. A very important—nay, _essential-_-accomplishment. For what is the purpose of a lady's accomplishments, but to delight our senses and enrich our lives?" Feeling there had been enough talk for now, he pulled Jane up to her knees, and gave her some instruction in the finer points of her new "accomplishment."

-----

Letty laid the gown out on Miss Jane's bed, the crisp feel of the fabric a delight to her. She was particularly proud of this gown, and prouder still that she had cajoled Miss Jane into wearing something so bold. It was an emerald green moiré—a color that would harmonize with the facings on the Colonel's uniform. She had originally suggested scarlet, but Jane, as she knew she would, shrank from that. When the rich green was suggested as an alternative, Jane had seized on it in relief. And thus, Letty, with a little manipulation, saw Jane in the dress that she had planned from the beginning. The bodice was splendid: embroidered in tiny flowers of every color. It was just an exquisite dress. Listening for any approaching footsteps, Letty held it up in front of her and looked in the mirror.

It was very nice, but the peacock blue became her better, perhaps. If she could not be Miss Jane's maid, it would be nearly as nice to be a seamstress in Ma'mselle Renaud's shop. Had there been time, Letty would have gone over the hems of the new dress with her needle, adding hundreds more of the dainty rosebuds. Perhaps after this dinner, she would talk it over with Miss Jane, and do so. It would be such fun.

Her mistress seemed happier lately. Letty had talked it over with her mother, who was unsurprised.

"They just needed some time, baby. The Colonel ain't such a bad man. Not as bad as some, anyway. He don't want to make Miss Jane miserable—he just wants his way, like all men. It takes time for a young girl to get used to that. She's not crying or hurt in the mornings anymore, you say?"

"No, Mama. Sometimes she just acts all bashful, but I don't think he hurts her anymore."

"Well, then, that's good. That's the way it should be. Maybe when this war is over he _will_ take her away from here. She needs a place of her own. And we'll go with her and take good care of her. The Colonel don't trifle with you?"

"No--he's a strange man, Mama. He talks to me about how he won't hurt me, but I just don't trust him. You know when a man says 'I won't hurt you,' it means he's about to hurt you bad."

"Well, baby, he's not from around here, and maybe things are different where he comes from. You just keep on with your work, and don't spend time alone with him."

It was good advice. Letty did her best never to be alone in a room with any man, most especially the husband of her new mistress. He was not like the old Master: he did not shout at the servants, or make nasty remarks to the women slaves; but she had heard the Colonel was a hard man and a killer, and you couldn't be too careful with someone like that. At least, though, he always praised Miss Jane's clothes, and would give Letty a nod sometimes, to show that he understood that she had a hand in keeping Miss Jane well-dressed.

Jane came upstairs to prepare. They would be taking the carriage to Lord Cornwallis' dinner, and have the dubious pleasure of close quarters with Papa and Selina for the duration. She entered the room to see Letty smoothing the folds of her gown, and smiled.

"It's so pretty. I've never had anything that color before."

They settled down for what was now the routine of painting and primping and hairdressing and jeweling. Letty was more experienced, and quicker at it now, and Jane was more relaxed. It had become a pleasure to have Letty groom her so meticulously, and to see herself looking so very much a fine lady. _If only my eyes were just a little larger…_

Silk stockings and garters, lace-trimmed silk shift, a petticoat, the false rump, the outer petticoat, the gown itself: all fell into place and fit perfectly. Jane eyed her flat bosom and slender waist with concern. The Colonel thought she was too thin, but she was never hungry. If she gained any weight, it would probably go to her hips and legs, and not conveniently appear as perfect, round breasts. She suspected her husband would prefer it if she had nicer breasts, but she had what she had. Biddy's words about conception concerned her more. After thinking it through, she decided that she would eat at least one thing more than usual. It was a practical, rational approach to the problem.

----- 

Jane looked quite nice, Tavington thought. The dress contrasted vividly with Selina's, who tended to favor white. Tavington smirked a little. Perhaps it was not the best choice as her pregnancy progressed, for it did not make Selina look her usual shapely self. However, he admitted there was a certain attractiveness to a woman in her condition. She was certainly the most beautiful expectant mother he had ever seen. Of course, he could not remember his mother when she had been carrying Lucy. She would have been far more lovely. He sighed to himself. _Sic transit gloria mundi._

But Jane looked _nice._ Perhaps it was better to have a plain but elegant wife. She had no beauty to miss as she aged, no lost looks to grieve over, as his mother did, weeping bitterly before her mirror. Selina would mourn too, someday, the loss of that quality that she clearly prized above all else. Jane would always be proper and elegant; and with age would look no worse than many a former beauty.

He had had another unpleasant interview with the Lord General, earlier in the day, and would attend the dinner with outward good cheer and inner resentment. Cornwallis was still angry about his lost coats and breeches, a ridiculous concern considering the very serious danger that such a raid exposed. He had thought better of the man before, but now he had lost all regard for him. And at the end of the conversation, as Tavington was attempting—in his opinion successfully—to defend himself, Cornwallis had said something he would never forgive.

"I don't want any of your excuses, Colonel. What matters is your performance, not who you mother's friends are!"

Tavington frowned, still nursing his grievance. _When I return to England, my lord Earl, you'll find my mother's friends of some consequence!_

It was a splendid dinner. Tavington noticed Jane's almost imperceptible grimace of distaste at the lavish meal spread before them. He supposed it might be considered a waste, but the food uneaten here filled the servants' bellies, and any left over from them would feed their friends and relations and the very poor. Besides, as he had tried to explain to Jane, the purpose of such a dinner was not the food as nourishment: it was to show the grandeur and elegance, the wealth and generosity of the host. Lord Cornwallis _must_ give a magnificent dinner, to support his position here in South Carolina.

"And besides, my dear, you need not eat it all! Nobody does. I ask only that you eat a little more than is your custom." It was unfortunate that as a married couple they could not sit together. Instead, he was placed by the charming Mrs. Giles, and knowing her history, exerted himself to be as pleasant and gentlemanly as possible.

Jane was taken in to dinner by Colonel Balfour, and found herself having a good time. He was a very serious man, a Scotsman of some education, and she discovered that he would talk about the philosopher Hume and about the intellectual society of Edinburgh with little urging. It was all very interesting, hearing about yet another place she would like to see someday. Major McArthur, seated across from her, joined the conversation with his reminiscences of Scotland, and Jane was fairly on the way to being entertained. Colonel Webster, further down the table, added his own remarks. They were all very intelligent, and very polite to her, and the talk of travel and books was far more diverting than the usual shop-talk of the war and supplies and the wretched quality of men in the ranks.

Conscientiously, she had her plate filled from the bewildering variety on the table. The crab soup was creamy and satisfying, the poached fish light and digestible. There was an array of savory mince pies, and scalloped oysters fragrant with herbs. The roast pork looked greasy to her and was rejected. She was tired of rice and took a spoonful of candied yams instead. Dutifully, she tried a bite of the turkey, and three bites of the fruit compote, and suppressed a sigh at the remove, when everything was taken from the table, and new dishes arranged before them. It would be a long evening. She drank a full glass of wine, and focused on the conversation

Tavington found himself near Banastre Tarleton.. The two had had a largely friendly rivalry when in the north, but once in South Carolina tensions had arisen, largely fueled by the Lord General's partiality. For some reason, Cornwallis had taken to Tarleton, just as he had taken against himself. It was a mystery to him. Perhaps the younger Tarleton, coming as he did from a family newly wealthy from trade, did not seem a rival. His methods were similar to Tavington's, and yet the Lord General had not rebuked him for them. All in all, it became evident to Tavington, seeing the easy, companionable bond between the two of them, that his commander's animus against him was purely personal. And that, Tavington decided, made it worse, because it was unprofessional.

At least Tarleton was not hostile to him. During the remove, he came down the table to chat with Tavington in his lively way.

"And so here is Tavington, the married man. Your wife is getting on very well with the Scottish contingent."

"She loves to hear about faraway places. Scotland must seem very exotic to her."

"You take it all very calmly."

"I'm not sure I understand you."

Tarleton grinned, and dropped his voice. "The whole marriage business. I can't imagine bowing my neck to the yoke!"

"My dear Ban, you are ten years younger than I. The day may come—sooner or later—when you too are very glad to catch yourself an accomplished young heiress."

"Yes—twenty thousand pounds! That's a fine fortune. Well, my friend, if you're happy, I'm happy for you, but I think I'll pass on the heiresses for now!"

-----

Jane, feeling very replete with food and wine, nearly fell asleep in the carriage on the way home. At least the party had broken up fairly early, as the officers must be on the move by the late morning. The Tavingtons did not bother with civilities, but took themselves off to their room ahead of the Rutledges. Tavington did not see the look of longing in Selina's eyes, as she realized she might never see him again.

Letty was waiting for Jane, and Tavington seated himself in the rocking chair, pretending to read a book, but really watching the proceedings. Jane did not let her charming maid curl her hair ("It's too late."), and blushed only a little as she doffed her beautiful gown and silk undergarments. When Letty finished and said her goodnights, Tavington rose, and surprised the girl with the gift of a guinea. He had already given one to her mother earlier in the day, as a sign of his approval. His wife had two faithful servants, and he was quite pleased that they were his as well.

He watched amused as Jane, prim in her crisp nightgown, slid between the sheets. Immediately, he discarded coatee and boots, stockings and breeches, and finally his shirt. Jane prepared to blow out the candle by the bed, when he forestalled her.

"Not tonight."

Her eyes grew larger, and her attempt at a protest stopped half spoken. Her gaze fluttered up and down, and she blushed deeply at the sight of him, proudly naked, advancing with obvious intent. The sheet was pulled brusquely from resisting hands, and Tavington was with her, in the bed, divesting her of her vestige of modesty.

"It looks better on the floor," he declared, with a playful air. "Now," he said thoughtfully, "what shall I do with you tonight?"

He gave a gentle push, and she fell back on the pillows, her skin bared to every electric sensation. Her husband held her motionless, as he touched and tasted her: fingers exploring the planes of her face, mouth searching hers. Unable to resist, she clutched at him, the smooth muscled back a gift to her hands. He slid lower, nuzzling and nipping at her neck, placing a kiss at the hollow of her throat, examining her collarbones with the curiosity of a traveler in strange lands.

His lips grazed a nipple, and then he fastened on it, drawing deeply. Jane felt the last relic of her self control escape as her mouth opened in a soundless cry, only satisfied when he moved his attentions to the other side and gave the pleasure balance.

A sudden gust of wind made the windows rattle, and she started, almost brought back to the world outside the curtained bed. The wind picked up, singing past the house like a wandering fiddler. The sound comforted her, and she felt protected by it, imagining that no curious ears could hear her own moans while the wind wailed so.

She was opened, and filled, and struggled not to lose him, carried beyond restraint by the teasingly slow pace, by the sudden ardent battering, by the delicious pleasures he conjured with his fingers. He was in the mood for sport, and suited his fancy, now languid in withdrawals that made her cry for loss of him, and now renewing their coupling with short, fierce grunts.

Transfixed, Jane was swept away by ripples of delight to a sudden wild release. White light flashed behind her eyes; nothing existed but the moment. She felt then that she loved the man inside her, and nearly forgot herself enough to cry it out as the spasms took her. Instead, she buried her confession in her husband's shoulder.

_Well,_ thought Tavington, _that's much more the thing._ He remembered that someone had said that Jane had secret fires. They had burned tonight. He gave her a kiss, and rolled off her, well pleased with himself. _Finally._ His shoulder throbbed, and he twisted his head to have a look.

"You bit me! You little devil!"

Appalled, she could only gasp out her apology. "I'm frightfully sorry! Are you much hurt?"

He laughed at her, and said, "No, of course not. Only a love bite." He pulled her against him, letting her head rest in the crook of his arm. "You seemed to enjoy that."

"Yes," she replied haltingly. "It was most---" She could not think of an appropriate word for such glory. _Diverting? Delightful? Enjoyable?_ Those were words to use about a ball, a tea party, a fashionable dinner. Finally her mind supplied something more fitting: "---profound."

"Profound," he repeated, rather thoughtfully. "I hope you found it profoundly agreeable."

She shook her head. "Agreeable is too weak a word, Colonel. I said—and meant—_profound._ That encompasses it all."

"And that is another thing," he observed, now sounding a little drowsy. "Can you really not bring yourself to call me by my Christian name?"

"It seems a little impertinent."

"Not at all. When we lie together so, it is perfectly correct. I grant you, in public we ought to use 'Colonel' and 'Mrs,' but surely in the privacy of our marriage bed, we can be a little less—formal."

"If it pleases you—William," she managed shyly, feeling quite odd.

"It does please me, Jane. It does please me." To prove it, he kissed her sweetly, and then fell at once into a deep sleep.

Jane snuffed the candle, and lay awake somewhat longer, more than a little unsettled. As she had at the height of her climax, she felt that she might be in love with her husband, and it made her rather sad. He was kind to her, and had opened new vistas of mysterious pleasure for her; but she did not deceive herself that _he_ was in love. Tomorrow he would leave her: to his war, his career, his unfathomable military life in which she had no part. He would leave her behind, and have a thousand more important things to think of than his plain Colonial bride. He would forget, she feared, and only she would remember.

-----

**Note:** A "course" in 18th century dining was not a single dish: it was an entire tableful of food. The first course included soup, but many other dishes as well, Diners would point out what they wanted and have the servants bring them to them. Gentlemen would carve the birds and joints nearest to them, and assist ladies in getting their portions. Contemporary accounts complain that by the time the soup was consumed, the rest of the course was cold. The table would then be cleared, and the second course brought in, which could include a combination of entrees, side dishes, puddings, and other desserts. There could be more courses. It was not unheard of for an upper class dinner to last five hours. The leftovers, of course, comprised the servants' meal.

_Sic transit gloria mundi:_ Thus passes the glory of this world. A reflection on the transitory nature of worldly things.

Don't forget to review, please!

Next—**Chapter 16: Lady in Waiting**


	16. Lady in Waiting

_Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to The Patriot. This is a work of fanfiction and I am quite obviously making no money from it. And this is my last disclaimer on the subject. I'm tired of writing them._

**Chapter 16: Lady in Waiting**

_A pleasant diversion_, Tavington reflected. While he had thought the Lord General's plans for diplomacy and high strategy a waste of time, the visit to Charlestown had been personally useful to him. He had largely made peace with Jane. She was still unhappy with her living arrangements, but had submitted to his decision. She seemed to have accepted him on an essential physical level. Certainly, she was as anxious as he that the marriage prosper, and yet she still seemed to suspect him of planning to abscond with her fortune. The very morning of his departure, she sat on their bed and blurted out her fears to him one last time.

"Do you promise that you'll come back for me? Do you _promise?"_

"Heavens, Jane, what passion! Yes, of course I'll return." With a theatrical flourish he pressed his hand to his heart. "I _promise_. There now, are you satisfied?"

"You had better come back," she growled, as if he had not spoken, "You had better come back, or I swear before God that I'll hunt you down. You'll never escape me. I'll hunt you down, and —"

Astonished at her, he forced a laugh and kissed her farewell. He had not planned on marrying a young woman of such strong feeling, but decided that it was not the worst thing in the world, after all. It certainly made her a more satisfactory bedmate.

The soldiers made their way north, and then went their separate ways. Tarleton traveled toward North Carolina; Tavington himself accompanied the Lord General to the central swamplands of the colony, where the Ghost operated. He had his work before him there: work which was in its way as satisfying as educating a virgin bride.

Jane was not so well satisfied. She was again left to her father and her stepmother, and all the household cares that had formerly seemed important were revealed now to be drudge's work. Letty moved back into Jane's room, and resumed her music lessons. It was odd to share her room with another girl instead of a demanding, alarming, and exciting male person, but it was quiet and restful, and pleasant in its own way.

And yet, she could hardly say that it was as if he had never been there, for Jane was very conscious of the lack of him, especially when she lay down to sleep at night. He was such an overwhelming presence, and she had begun to find his strange ideas of pleasure rather –addictive. It had been wrong to resist these feelings as she sometimes had. One day she found some folded handkerchiefs he had left behind, and breathed in his scent from them. It made her feel quite---how to describe it?—quite _warm._

Three days after his departure, she had a surprise which distracted her from these reflections.

When Davus told her she had a letter, she wondered why her husband was writing to her so soon. But the letter, it transpired, was not from her husband.

"Oh, Letty!" she cried, recognizing the handwriting at once. "It is from Miss Gilpin!"

Letty sat on her little bed, while Jane went to her dressing table and found her opener to break the wax seal. She pried it off gently, for the letter was fairly weather-beaten. Glancing over the contents, she smiled, and turned to tell Letty about it.

"The voyage was dreadful, and the journey by post coach very tiring, but she is safely in England." Jane laughed at the next part. "She was very surprised to see how much older her brother was, and he felt just the same about her. Her nieces are sweet, delightful girls, and she is very, very happy to be with her family once more."

Jane blushed at the next few paragraphs: Miss Gilpin's hopes and fears for Jane's marriage, her gratitude for the money, her enthusiasm for her new way of life.

"How odd," Jane said thoughtfully. "I thought I would be the one who would leave and have an adventure, but it was Miss Gilpin who did, instead."

"You'll have your chance, Miss Jane. What else does she say?"

"Here is something interesting:

'_It is high summer in Bedfordshire, and yet the weather is perfection: a sweet, mild climate, free of oppressive heat and without the swarms of insects that make July in the Carolinas so difficult to bear. Here, one's clothing does not stick to one; it is possible to take a vigorous walk at midday without endangering one's life. Before I went out to America, I was accustomed to long walks; once arrived in South Carolina, I wondered why other women thought me reckless. I can no longer walk quite so far and fast, but I have taken up the habit again, and am learning all the country lanes and paths with such pleasure, accompanied as I am by Fanny and Belinda. They love to hear of my travels, and I have told them about you, my dear Jane. _

_The village is so charming: full of pleasant people. I imagine you amongst them so easily. My dear brother's church is small, but very fine: dating from the twelfth century. The vicarage is extremely comfortable and generous in size. Sir Roger Seymour, our local squire, is a good friend to my brother. They have known one another since their days at university. Sir Roger did a great deal to improve the vicarage when he gave my brother the living. My own room is delightful, with a view of the meadow. There are also very handsome guest quarters, to which I now make free to invite you, my dear, someday when a kind Providence may reunite us.'"_

They were silent a moment, thinking.

Letty said, "You'll see her again, Miss Jane. I would wager you will be in England within a year or two at most."

"Oh, Letty, who can foretell the future? The war has lasted so long already. Perhaps it may last another five years." She folded the letter and put it away in her writing desk. "But it _is_ nice to dream. When I write to Miss Gilpin I shall ask her to describe her bedchamber and the guest apartments in detail. That way I can picture her more clearly." A saucy smile crossed her lips, "Besides, if I'm in England, you'll certainly be with me. You'll see it all too."

"I can't imagine that. I wonder if Mama would like to travel so far---"

"She told me that as long as she has you and has me, she'll be happy. We'll never be separated. Where I go, you go, and that's that."

Letty laughed. "Then I'd better study my books, so I'll be ready if I ever come upon Mrs. Teachum!"

Jane laughed in her turn, and then felt a little uncomfortable. She leaned back and shut her eyes. Her monthly courses, always irregular, had not come for some weeks, and now she was a bit sick. Usually when the wait was this long, they struck with a vengeance, and she was not looking forward to their arrival. They must be soon, though: her breasts were painful and tender, and food was becoming more distasteful than ordinary. She was trying to obey William, and eat a little more than usual, but lately it had become increasingly difficult.

"Are you all right, Miss Jane?"

"Yes," she answered automatically, and then decided to be honest. "No—not entirely. I don't feel particularly well. My stays are digging into me so—" She got up restlessly, and looked at her pale face in the mirror. Absently, she brought her hand to her breast. "I'm so sore. Perhaps you could loosen my laces."

Concerned, Letty set about undoing the back of Jane's gown, and then unlacing the tight, boned stays. As she adjusted them, they slipped up, and Jane gave a little gasp of pain.

"Are you hurting? I better get Mama!"

"No—Yes! See if she can come down. Maybe she'll know what to do." Her laces undone, she sat down again, leaving her gown and stays open in the back.

Biddy was down directly, conversing quietly with Letty as she entered. She came to Jane, brows knit, and wasted no time; but pulled up a little footstool, sat down, and began to ask very personal questions.

"When did you last bleed, honey?"

"Oh! Not since early September—yes. It was about two weeks before the Colonel's visit."

Biddy nodded thoughtfully, and laid a gentle hand over Jane's left breast, feeling the swelling.

"Are you having to use the commode more than usual?"

Jane blushed at such a strange question. "Well--yes, I suppose--"

"Are you having trouble keeping your food down?"

"Well—sometimes I feel little—green. I just won't each as much, and it—"

"You'll eat, honey. The Colonel ordered me to take good care of you, and he's my new master."

Jane smiled unwilling, and Biddy smiled back, taking Jane's hands in hers.

"Ain't nothing wrong with you, honey. You're just going to have a baby is all."

Jane's mouth opened, and then closed. "Are you sure?"

"Not certain sure, but it's the most likely thing." She stroked Jane's cheek tenderly. "The nicest thing in the world, honey. A little baby all your own. Maybe a little rascal boy, growing up to be a soldier like his Papa. Or maybe a sweet little girl. Think how nice it would be to dress her pretty and teach her to be a little lady."

Impulsively, Jane threw her arms around her nurse, feeling tears welling up. "Oh, Biddy! How will I manage? Thank Heavens I have you!" She reached over and grasped Letty's hand. "And you too, Letty. It will be our secret for now, for I can't bear to tell Papa and Selina and have them talk about my baby in that way they have. Promise me you won't tell."

"I promise, Miss Jane," Letty replied earnestly.

"If that's what you want, honey, maybe it's for the best," Biddy agreed. "It _might_ be a false alarm, though I don't think so. 'Twouldn't be good for you to be troubled and worried about it. But you got to _eat!_" She declared with a firm nod. "The Colonel's right about that."

"Everything seems so nasty."

Biddy frowned. "Letty, you get Miss Jane some tea and toast, and maybe a little rice pudding."

"I'm tired of rice."

"Don't you be like that. It's good for you. You want a healthy, strong baby. You need to eat and drink enough that the baby gets a share! Now you take off your gown and stays and have a good rest." She got up and pulled Jane to her feet, giving her another warm hug. "And you write to your baby's Papa and tell _him._ He's got a right to know."

"All right. As soon as I hear from him, I'll write back and give him the news." Jane had become more confident in her marriage, but receiving a letter from her husband was her secret test. _He_ must write first.

------

As her condition became more and more apparent to her, Jane found waiting for Tavington's letter very tiresome. The secret was a burden, and she wanted him to share it. Selina's growing belly did not so offend her now. While it was possible that her husband was the father of her stepmother's child, he would never be so openly. Selina's condition was now old news, and Jane found herself regarding it something that no longer had any bearing on her life. Her father's sneers and gibes passed over her nearly unheard.

News of the war came endlessly: some of it good, a great deal of it bad. The tale of the battle at King's Mountain swept the town, and loyalties shifted subtly with the enormity of the defeat. The ruthlessness with which the Loyalists there were massacred made many reluctant to support the Crown openly any longer. Ashbury Rutledge did not rely solely on newspapers. He had sources within the British garrison, and among relatives and friends on the opposing side. He kept his own counsel, but was increasingly irritated that his willful daughter's elopement had put him so definitely on the King's side. It was time to find a better balance, but how could he do so with the wretched girl under his own roof? It would not do to put her out of the house at the present time: it was too late to claim indignation over her disobedience. To disown her now would declare him openly on the side of his cousin John Rutledge and the other radicals. At least that thieving Englishman was far away.

Jane could not help hearing the news. At dinner, she heard even more, for it was impossible for Selina, restless and now confined by her condition, to be entirely discreet. But other than feeling for her husband's dangers and hardships, none of it mattered to her as much as her own affairs. She would be a mother—was in fact already a mother, for she was already hard at work caring for the child within her. There were dangers, to be sure. It would be terrible if her own mother's fate were to be hers, but there was nothing she could do about that. Jane went about her daily duties in her usual conscientious way; and she was equally dutiful to herself. Occasionally, she was sick; but she learned that if she had breakfast early, and did not see her father gobbling his fried eggs in the morning, she was less likely to waste her efforts. As for the other meals, she kept her eyes on her own plate, adding an extra helping like a quartermaster judging the rations for a soldier. She visited the nursery with greater attention to the essentials of childcare now: not simply playing with her brother, but understanding his schedule and his meals; the changes in his little mind and body.

And one wonderful day, she and Letty went out to the shops and came home with delicate white linen and the softest wool; with ribbons and colorful yarn, with lace and lengths of little seed pearls: everything they would need to make Jane's baby linen the most beautiful ever seen. They worked on it in secret, in Jane's cozy green bedchamber, bringing up the tiny shirts and caps and blankets for Biddy's advice and admiration when Coral was out of the nursery.

And at last she had her letter.

_October 20, 1780_

_My dear Jane,_

_Despite a brief fever, I am otherwise well and unwounded. This sickness has made heavy inroads in the Army. In addition to fever, the smallpox swept our camp, and killed a number of soldiers and civilians. If nothing else, I am obliged to my mother for her care of all her children, for she kept us in the country and far from infection until we were old enough to be inoculated. Among the victims was Mr. Blethers, the chaplain who married us. I was harsh with him, these past few months, wanting to punish him for his rudeness at our wedding, but in the end Nature caused him more suffering than ever I could have. It is a dreadful disease._

_The Lord General is sick, on and off, his condition complicated by his recurrent quartain fever. Because so many are ill, we have been slow to deal with the rebels—tragically slow up north, where Tarleton's illness made him incapable of going to Ferguson's relief in time to save that gallant officer._

_I have been tasked with tracking down the latest thorn in our side, the so-called "Ghost." In reality, the man is one Benjamin Martin of Freshwater, whose farm I burned back in May. No doubt that exasperated him, but I cannot regret it. Have you heard of him? Any information you have could be of use, for the Lord General is "mightily wroth" with Martin. Among other things, he stole his dogs and then seduced their affections. "Good riddance," say I._

_Actually, I could not help but feel some amusement. I had, at the cost of some brave men's lives, succeeded in surprising Martin and his marauders, and captured a number of them. Cornwallis and O'Hara made some ridiculous prisoner exchange arrangement with this man, whom I know to be absolutely without honor. He gulled them into believing that he had taken a number of our officers captive and was threatening their lives. My superiors—though I hate to use that word in such a context—then allowed him to leave with his band of outlaws, one of whom was wearing a clerical collar! I attempted to forestall this farce, but was called to order by that martinet O'Hara. At least I relieved my feelings somewhat with a few well-placed taunts in Martin's direction. At any rate, you will laugh when you hear that the "British officers" were scarecrows! I was blamed, of course, for the feckless behavior of those in command. They did not even send out scouts to verify the rebel's story! I have approached Wilkins for intelligence about Martin, but I need more. See what your father knows, I pray you._

_Our time together in Charlestown has left me with a number of pleasant memories. I look forward to our next meeting._

_Your devoted husband,_

_William_

Jane had never replied to a letter with such joy. There was so much to say. She had her own glorious news, but she had an opportunity to help him now: an opportunity to make him respect her as a real helpmate.

_November 15, 1780 _

_My dear William,_

_I was relieved to hear that you took no great harm from the sickness at camp. May you continue well._

_I have news, my dear husband, which you might find of some interest. It appears that my hopes have been answered, and that our family shall be increased in the coming year. Biddy has assured me it is so, and who would know better? I cannot describe my happiness. I am quite well—only rarely indisposed—and am sleeping and eating as I ought. She believes—and it is only logical—that the child will arrive sometime in June. You may think it whimsical of me, but what do you say to the name Junius—or Junia?_

_I hope that you too, are well and taking care of yourself—as you ought. I do, however, understand that it might not always be possible. Perhaps I should write to Captain Bordon and ask him to be my spy, and see that you follow a healthy regimen, for our child must know his father. Or perhaps my cousin Wilkins, though I doubt his powers of observation are equal to the former's._

_We received the news of the disaster at King's Mountain, and I am so very sorry for all the suffering. We heard how the brave Ferguson fell, and of the outrages committed by the Over Mountain Men. What brutes they must be. And as for that Martin and his outlaws, I pray nightly that you put them down directly. It is frightening to think of such lawlessness in this colony, which was once so peaceful and prosperous. I hate the thought of our child ever experiencing such upheaval and distress. _

_You asked me if I knew the Martins. Yes, I have been introduced to some of the family. Mr. Martin dined with us once or twice, usually when visiting the sister of his late wife, whom we know much better. Mrs. Selton is a renowned beauty, but I have never found her very amiable. However, she never got on with Selina, either, so she must have some redeeming qualities. I always thought she dressed rather too young for a widow, though she has never remarried. There has been gossip in the past about her and Mr. Martin, but I cannot believe it. Mrs. Selton is Church of England, and so could not decently marry her brother-in-law! The Martins, though, are Huguenots, and so who knows what _he _may intend? She has a large plantation, Selton Hall, which she has managed well since her husband's death, so marriage would certainly improve his fortunes. Papa fancies her, I think, for he often said she was a good woman of business, and very comely, besides. _

_The only one of the Martin children I ever met was Gabriel, the eldest son. The girls are not old enough to be out and have never been sent to school in Charlestown. Gabriel is considered very handsome, and I suppose he is—if one cares for that type. I cannot say I have ever conversed with him, as he was only interested in radical politics, and not at all in music or literature. In fact, none of the Martins are very well educated, from what I can gather. But they are not in the first circles of Charlestown society, not being related to any of the leading families. Mr. Martin served in the Assembly, and contrary to what you may have heard, did not favor war. He represented all the suffering that would ensue from armed rebellion, and in that he was perfectly correct._

_What else do I know of them? I have heard that Gabriel was betrothed, but I do not know what came of that. I do not know the young woman. She is not a lady, for the father, a Mr Peter Howard is the name—is in trade in a small way upriver at Pembroke. Not a great match, but good enough for that family, certainly._

Jane looked over the letter and was ashamed of the catty tone. It was true that she knew the Martins—better than she admitted. And there was a particular reason for her dislike. Charlotte Selton had seemed very condescending on occasion. Perhaps she was oversensitive, but there had been something in her eyes that had irked Jane. Perhaps it was simply that she was so beautiful, in that gold and ivory way she had learned to hate in Selina.

Gabriel Martin she remembered very well indeed, though probably he could never have recognized her. He had been in Charlestown just before the war, and there had been a ball, at which she had sat not three feet from him, while he stood there chatting about politics with his tiresome friends. She had been the only young lady sitting down at one point, and the boy (for he was a year or two younger than she) had actually glanced around and seen her. He had looked at her briefly, and then had resumed his tedious conversation. Jane had been humiliated, for it was plain that he had not thought her worth his time. A petty cause, but she would never, never forgive him. _Let him marry some peddler's daughter and live in the backcountry on hoecake and sowbelly._ For all his pretty face, he had not been very gallant by her. She decided to let her words stand. William would not fault her for not being kind to his enemies. She suspected William was not very kind to his enemies, either.

She was proud of the next paragraphs. He had specifically asked her to obtain information about Benjamin Martin from her father, and she had managed to pry some out. It had taken positively Byzantine maneuvering. She had engaged Aunt Alice in conversation about Martin and his rebel band, and Aunt Alice had heard some gossip about him long ago. At the dinner table, she had timidly brought it up and Selina had been avid for more. Her father, to please her, had told her all about Martin's exploits in the last war under Harry Burwell, whom he also knew well.

_Papa, of course, also knows Colonel Burwell, who was Mr. Martin's commander when they served together in the last war. Mr. Martin held the King's commission, though he never uses the title Captain. Apparently he is ashamed of it. That may disgust you, but the reason may be no so much Mr. Martin's view of the Crown, as from shame at his conduct while on campaign. Apparently, he committed atrocities upon both Frenchmen and Indians at a place called Fort Wilderness. Mr. Martin was very partial to using an Indian tomahawk, and was given a commemorative engraved one to celebrate his chopping up of captured men. Papa told Selina that he tortured and mutilated his enemies, scalping them and gouging eyes and cutting off ears and other parts—well, you can imagine. Or not. He was very quiet when I met him, but Papa says that he has always struggled against a violent nature. Evidently, he struggles no longer._

_Papa believes that he has rounded up some of his old scalphunters to join his militia band, for they are excellent woodsmen and would not shrink from any desperate deed. Colonel Burwell is a very gentlemanly man, and was not besmirched by Mr. Martin's actions in the last war—or in this one—but Papa thinks he knows perfectly well what is going on. Mr. Martin is no better than his friend Cleveland who goes about hanging people and lopping off limbs and cutting ears. I will not write any more about this, for it makes me sick and frightened to imagine such wickedness. _

_Your description of Lord Cornwallis' discomfiture made me laugh. It is clearly a judgement on him for his lack of confidence in your advice. And who would have thought a brave man like General O'Hara would have become such a toadeater? Good Sir Henry was so much more rational, and I regret his departure. _

_I heard from my dear Miss Gilpin, who arrived safely at her brother's home at Catesby Vicarage, near Biggleswade, Bedfordshire. She is well and very happy with her brother and her nieces. The way she describes the country makes me quite envious, but I am relieved at her good fortune. She says she does not miss the climate of the Carolinas, and I cannot blame her._

She did not feel she could send the letter without some more intimate touch. After some nervous reflection, she added:

_Dear William, I too have pleasant memories of your visit. I regret that I am so stupid about some things, but please understand how new and strange they seem to me. I promise to do better._

_Your obedient wife,_

_Jane_

----- 

No letter came in reply. Jane did not expect one for at least a month, but the time stretched on and on. Whispers and rumors reached her, the cullings from rebel newspapers and from letters from rebel relations. Tavington was storming up the rivers of the backcountry with fire and sword, as he had promised. People were saying dreadful things about him. And at dinner Jane had to listen to them, for her father and Selina found the gossip quite interesting.

Rutledge felt it confirmed his opinion of Tavington as a brute of a soldier. Selina agreed with her husband to his face, but instead of feeling contempt for Tavington, she was excited by the stories. Her lover was a fearsome warrior—everyone quaked at the sound of his name. She would have liked to have seen him, sword in hand, and offered him a soldier's reward for all his deeds of valor. It was a great pity, she reflected, that Tavington would have to glean what scraps of pleasure he could from Jane, who could not possibly appreciate him.

When her clothes became uncomfortably tight, Jane went to Mlle. Renaud's, asking for and receiving discreet assistance. New clothes were ordered that would accommodate the expansion of her waist. To her surprise, Jane found herself with something of a bosom. The changes were not all pleasant, but they were interesting, and the pretty, loose-bodied gowns in mulberry and dark green, and the new walking habit in dark blue broadcloth made a nice change. She was advised to go to a shop that would make her maternity stays that laced in the front. This was done, and Jane contemplated the possibility of being able to entirely dress herself, if necessary.

Finally, just as Jane was beginning to worry a little, a brief message arrived just before Christmas.

_December 17, 1780_

_Camden_

_My dear Jane,_

_I am well and unwounded. My dear, I am delighted at your news, and I charge you to care for yourself as you know you ought. Take the kind of care you would with another, for I know you unfortunately tend to put yourself last. This must not be._

_Your information about our friend, "The Ghost," proved quite useful. I cannot write more as I am in hot pursuit of the fellow and his outlaws. We had other intelligence suggesting that Pembroke was their base of operations, but you helped confirm it. Well done, my dear. May we meet again soon in the new year._

_Your devoted husband,_

_William_

Short as the note was, it was a great comfort to Jane. She read it and reread it in the privacy of her room, and replied at length.

…_how glad I was to be of some use to you in all your difficulties. I felt quite clever, obtaining that information from Papa without him knowing that it was I who wanted it. Perhaps I am not the most skillful spy in this war, but I have done what I could._

_I am quite well, and other than you and Biddy and Letty, no one knows I am with child. I did not like the idea of how Papa might behave, though I suppose it must be faced eventually. He will certainly make some coarse remark. I am not sure Selina will even notice. She is very near her time, and I do pity her a little, for she is so uncomfortable and awkward, and our female relations come and tell her every frightful story of childbed terrors that they can lay tongue too. I come in for quite enough of that myself as a supposedly uninterested party. I cannot imagine why women do this to other women. It is really quite cruel. You know I am not fond of Selina, but I would never tell her horrors and gloat over her misery. I think sometimes that my female relations are very much a pack of old cats. That does not sound very nice of me, I know, but if you knew what they are saying…_

She could not imagine that he would find the particulars interesting, so she did not write them. At that, some of the stories, like that of the twin born without a head, were so hideous that she tried not to think of them at all. Selina had born a child before, but had had a very hard time then. She was clearly frightened, and the most recent tea visit had not made her any calmer.

Thus the days dragged on, with Jane's life more and more separate from the lives of her father and his wife. Davus had orders to bring her letters to her at once. When one finally arrived in late January, she cried, "At last!" and opened it eagerly, not even seeing the handwriting on the outside. Had she done so, she would have realized that the letter was not from her husband. She paused, at the unfamiliar script, and stood frozen as she read the terrible words. 

_January 25, 1781_

_Camden_

_My dear Mrs. Tavington,_

_I regret to inform you, Madam, of a most disastrous engagement between His Majesty's Army and the forces of the Continentals, which took place on January the seventeenth of this month. Your husband, Colonel Tavington, was gravely wounded, and is now in hospital here. _

_The colonel fought with undaunted courage against overwhelming odds. His wounds, alas, are such that our surgeons fear that it is only a matter of time before he succumbs to them…_

Jane's head spun, and she sat down heavily in her rocking chair. Letty, who had been folding linen in the clothespress, heard a faint whimper, and turned to see the look on Jane's face.

"What it is?" she asked, too frightened for respectful address.

"It is from Lord Rawdon in Camden. Colonel Tavington has been wounded. They do not expect him to survive." She sat trembling, clutching the letter, unable to read any more. Letty gently eased the letter from her grasp, and looked at the rest.

"Lord Rawdon sent this with his dispatches. He didn't want you to hear about it from gossip or the newspapers."

Jane could hardly speak. "How kind of him," she whispered. "My husband may be dead by now."

Letty did not much like her new master, but she hated to see Jane so distressed. "His lordship says here that they're doing everything they can for him. And he's mighty strong, honey. You know he'll put up a fight."

"Yes. He'll fight." Jane seized that idea, for lack of any other. "He's never afraid. And if he's is still alive, he's in a horrible hospital."

"They're bad places, but I reckon they'll do what they can on account of his rank."

A flash, a great light, a blazing epiphany struck Jane with physical force. "I must go to him."

"Miss Jane! That's right close to a hundred miles away. You can't go into the backcountry all by yourself!"

"I _am _going to him. It's my duty to take care of him." Her path lay before her, and she felt ready to overcome any obstacle in her way. "I _am_ going, and no one is going to stop me. I have money. I can buy a coach. I can find a coachman. I can be in Camden in a few days." She took a deep breath, trying to stop the shaking that threatened to overwhelm her.

Letty had never seen such a determined look on Jane's face. "You can't go alone, honey. It's not safe!"

Jane remembered the quarrel with her husband the day of their marriage. _I don't want to be safe! I want to be free!_ Tavington would not take her from her father's house, but now Jane had every right—nay, every obligation—to leave it behind. "I can take care of myself." The rush of blood to her head that had given life to her new purpose subsided. "I don't doubt it will be dangerous. You should stay here, Letty. I'll find some older woman, maybe a soldier's wife—"

"No you don't, Miss Jane! If you're going to that wild place, you are going to take me with you!"

Jane shook her head, and Letty insisted. "Yes, you are, honey! How can you go without me? You can't even dress your own hair! Who's going to take care of you--and you carrying a baby and all?" An exciting idea struck her. "And Mama will want to go too!"

"But Little Ash—"

"Little Ash is going to live off the fat of the land, just like always! Mama and me belong with you! You can't leave us here with the Master and Miss Selina. Where you go, _we_ go, and that's that!"

-----

**Note:** Some of you will ask, "What happened to "tell me about Ohio"? Well, I'm dropping that bit from _The Patriot_. After sitting and thinking it over at very great length, I've come to the conclusion that it's just codswallop, and that the screenwriter threw it in to be "neat," and to have moviegoers in the Buckeye State go "eww!" The idea of Cornwallis and Tavington wanting a huge chunk of North American interior is pretty laughable. First of all, the Crown would never have given Cornwallis a hundred thousand acres. Not going to happen. But for the sake of argument, let me point out that if he got it, it would not be worth any money to him for decades at the earliest. Ohio is too far north for any of the profitable cash crops: cotton, tobacco, indigo, rice, sugar. Good farmland, after a lot of clearing and years of hard work, but it would be a long time before there would be a market for large quantities of farm produce, and even longer before there was a reasonable mode of transporting such quantities. The Ohio River runs the wrong way. Who would farm it for them? They're not going to get the army of tenant farmers necessary when those individuals have any hope of owning their own homesteads. Most tellingly, one of the major points of conflict in the war was the Crown's attempt to keep settlers OUT of the land beyond the Appalachians, because of their treaties with the Native Americans. Besides, can any of you actually picture the Tavington of the film wanting to go and live in a log cabin in the backwoods? I think not. I believe he's fixed on going home in a blaze of glory like his template, Banastre Tarleton, because England is the only place that actually matters to him.

Mlle. Renaud might make Jane a wardrobe, but would not sell her stays. The art of staymaking was very specialized and often performed by men.

Thanks to my reviewers! You make my day.

Next—**Chapter 17:** **To Gallop in a Coach and Six**


	17. To Gallop in a Coach and Six

_I'm going out of town for a few days, and I thought I'd go ahead and post early rather than be late. Hope you enjoy it!_

**Chapter 17: To Gallop in a Coach and Six**

The news of Tavington's situation was met with a variety of responses. Some of them surprised Jane.

Aunt Alice spoke up immediately and was very kind and sympathetic, sounding more rational than Jane would have thought possible.

For Ashbury Rutledge, it was the solution to an irritating problem. He had been feeling for some time that it would be most convenient if his ties to Colonel William Tavington and the British Army were not quite so manifest. If Jane wanted to run off into the blue after the man, it would be a good excuse to be rid of her, especially since she was of no longer of any financial value to him. She had been a thorn in his side long enough. He had felt some concern about losing her services as housekeeper, but he found Selina disagreeing with him about this.

That Tavington had been seriously wounded was a great shock to Selina. The impression of him had faded somewhat—it had, after all, been over five months since she had last seen him—but she had some fond memories of him, and above all there was the child--his child-- that she carried. She sat in silence for some time, torn between the horrible idea of Tavington dying alone and uncared for in the wilderness, and the horrible idea of Jane going to him and caring for him and earning his gratitude. Both were quite awful. At length, she finally decided that since Jane was too unattractive for him ever to feel much for, it would best after all if she went and made herself useful. Besides, it would be very pleasant to see the back of her stepdaughter.

And so, as soon as Jane left the room, she vocally threw the weight of her influence on Jane's side. "Yes, Jane ought to go. It's her duty. If you were hurt you'd want me to come, wouldn't you?"

Rutledge smiled. "That's entirely different, my dear."

"Yes, I know, but Jane might save him. Otherwise she'll be here underfoot for the rest of her life."

"I don't like the idea of you being burdened by the housekeeping—"

"My love, it is no trouble at all. I am sure that Aunt Alice—" she said. The little woman beside her listened with carefully suppressed excitement, grateful to God that her hour had come at last; when she could prove how indispensable she was to this family. If Jane were to leave, everything would fall to her, and she was ready.

And so, by the time Jane returned, she found her father much more disposed to be helpful to her. He gave some genuinely intelligent and practical advice about traveling north. He knew the roads and the taverns and the inns—what was left of them—on the way. He knew which merchants to visit, and how to pack for a long journey. He took her into his study, and sketched out a copy of the pertinent map (though he did not give her the valuable map itself). He also sensibly pointed out the need for loyal servants to accompany her.

"I am taking Biddy and Letty," she told him. Surprised that he was not objecting, she felt compelled to excuse herself. "I know it will be unfortunate for Little Ash, but Biddy is an inexperienced sick nurse."

His face was expressionless. "Biddy is your property. You can do with her as you see fit. I was more concerned about menservants. You'll need a good coachman and footman."

It then transpired that he expressed himself willing to part with Old Silas and his young son Seth for a mere fraction of their value. Jane seethed, knowing that her father wanted to get as much of the lost two hundred pounds as he could; but in the end she was forced to consider the proposal. Either she could buy Silas and Seth for a hundred pounds, knowing that they were good and reliable men; or she would have to buy slaves of unknown quality for more money. She asked for a moment to consult the men herself. Unwilling slaves bent on escape would do more harm than good.

She stepped out and found them in the stable yard. Explaining her mission, she found them agreeable.

"Are you sure this won't make you unhappy?"

Seth seemed inclined to go, but first looked at his father for his opinion. The older, grizzled man shook his head.

"No, Miss Jane. I don't mind taking a trip up north with you. You buyin' me _and_ Seth from the Old Master, you say?"

"Yes, I'd be taking both you and Seth. Papa will have Amos as coachman."

Silas frowned thoughtfully. He knew that he was getting old, and he knew the fate of Rutledge's slaves when he considered them no longer of use_. Biddy sure sets a store by Miss Jane._ _Maybe I better get out while the gettin's good._

"I reckon we'd just as soon go along with you then, Miss Jane. Do me good to see the open road again."

That settled, Jane completed the agreement with her father in short order. Jane noticed that he did not offer her his coach. That she would have to see to herself.

When told of the plans, Selina had only one objection.

"I cannot do without Biddy," she complained. " How can you let Biddy go when _I_ need her?"

"Now then," smiled her husband, "you know Biddy is Jane's, and so is Letty. They came to her from her mother. You have Coral, and I'll send her cousin Sukey to help up there in the nursery. We'll have a proper physician for you when your time comes. Biddy's getting old, anyway."

"That's true," agreed Selina, somewhat mollified, "and she's always fussing over Jane. It's time for a change, I suppose."

-----

It was very convenient, Jane reflected, to be the daughter of Ashbury Rutledge, the Rice King. People knew her by sight, and everyone had heard of her father. Tradesmen were eager for her custom, and her lawyer wonderfully obliging. Jane simply told people what she wanted, and, as if by magic, her wishes were granted

Of course, it all cost a great deal of money, but that was the least of her worries. Jane found her little tin box quite equal to the demands. She wasted no time in putting her plans in action. A coach and horses were the first priority and she pursued them immediately and ruthlessly.

"It's not new, ma'am," apologized the carriage-maker, "but it's big and sturdy, just like you wanted."

In truth, the heavy road coach was exactly what she needed. Too big for the carriage maker to easily dispose of, it had been bought for a song when its last owner packed up and left for Jamaica. It looked opulent from a distance, and its seats were comfortable enough. New it was not, however: the body was scratched and weathered, and the brilliant primrose damask of the upholstery was worn and stained, and had faded over time to a rather nasty shade of mustard yellow. But it was strongly built for long-distance travel over bad roads, and it had the essential virtue of being wide enough for a tall man to lie down inside. How else was she to get Tavington back to Charlestown, if he were badly injured?

The team of six strong horses was even harder to procure, but bribery and corruption served her turn. Six strong horses appeared that evening in her father's stable. They were not a matched team, but Jane cared nothing for appearances, and it mattered not to her if a mixture of greys and blacks and chestnuts pulled her carriage.

Biddy had accepted that she was to go, wistfully stroking Little Ash's bright hair back from his face the day Jane broke the news to her. The boy shrugged off her gentle hand impatiently, eager for a gallop on his stick horse. She wondered if he would remember her when she was gone, and then decided it would be best if he did not. He would only grieve uselessly. But Jane would always be her nursling, and whether a slave or not, Biddy was older than her mistress, and let her voice be heard in the preparations.

"We need to take some food with us, honey. No telling what we'll find out in the backcountry with the soldiers going up and down. There might not be a pig or a chicken left 'twixt here and Camden. Those inns your Papa tell of—they might be there, and they might not. You need to stock up, honey— rice and corn meal and 'lasses, and a ham or a side of bacon. Tea and sugar, and cooking gear, too. A lantern and candles. We need bandages and healing herbs. You might go to the 'pothecary and buy some of that laudanum."

"The hospital should have all that, Biddy."

"_Should's_ not the same as _does,_ honey. And it's cold out. It'll be colder when we camp. If an inn ain't standing no more, we'll have to camp out—maybe sleep in the coach. We'll need quilts and blankets and such. And even if you did sleep at one of those inns, you might find yourself with fleas and lice from the dirty straw on the beds. And if you try to lay the Colonel down in the coach, what's he going to lay on? You need to roll up a featherbed and take a few pillows."

However impatient she was, Jane could see that Biddy was making sense. She sat down with Biddy and Letty, and together they made a long, practical list of what to take. Silas and Seth were consulted. Silas explained to her that the trip would take longer than she thought. They would not be able to change horses at the inns, as they would have in peacetime, and thus would be stopping often to rest the team. As for protection, Silas had an old fowling piece given to him years before, and Jane purchased powder and shot for it. It was not a very imposing weapon, but it was better than nothing, and could be used to shoot game and birds—"if the country ain't all hunted out already," Silas observed cynically. He was not really supposed to own a firearm, but slaves often did. Seth hinted at his own desire for such a weapon, but Jane was afraid to defy the Slave Code to that extent.

The second night after the letter, Jane lay in bed thinking hard, and finally decided that when she left her father's house, she would be leaving forever. One way or another, whether William Tavington lived or not, she would never dwell under this roof again. The world was wide. If her husband were dead, she would find a place of her own, where she could raise her child in peace. If he lived—well, she would just have to see; but she was never coming back _here._

The next day, she pulled out all the trunks and boxes they were to take and looked over them, deciding what would fit on top of the coach, what could be carried in the back, and what would fit under the seats. Silas and Seth would each have a small bag of their own, but they would not take up much space. Small trunks were purchased for Biddy and Letty, and a few items were found ready-made to eke out their belongings.

Jane had a large trunk in which she stowed whatever clothing she would own hereafter. The new, loose-bodied gowns from Mlle. Renaud's were already packed. Her new traveling habit, made to accommodate her growing girth, was exactly what she would need. It would have been nice if she had had time for new boots, but she would have to make do. At least her hooded cloak was thick and warm. Her books and music went into a box; her newly purchased medicines into a neat chest made for the purpose. A number of personal items from her room would be taken: her candlesticks and a few pieces of her mother's old-fashioned china and silver. Of course, there was the baby linen and additional bedding as well.

She stood some time in front of the tiny spinet, wondering if taking it might be possible. She described it to Silas, who thought it was. The legs would come off, making a small flat box. A featherbed could be tied around it, and the whole wrapped in oilcloth and strapped on top of the coach.

"What about putting in the back?" she objected.

"On top's better for it, Miss Jane," Silas told her patiently, wishing that silly young women would not try to tell him his business. "You want to put your big trunk in back. That's just clothes. The joltin' and all is worse in back, but it don't hurt clothes none." Jane bowed to his experience, and felt quite elated. She did not want to leave behind anything precious to her. She would include extra strings and the tuning key. Her husband liked music.

"Don't forget your fiddle," she reminded Silas, who only smiled. He would certainly not leave either of his two dearest possessions behind.

-----

"Jane, I believe you are mad!"

"Cousin Mary, I am not mad. It is my duty to go--"

Mary Laurens set her tea cup down very carefully. It was Wedgwood jasperware, and she cherished it as she did her other possessions. Jane might have gone mad, but that was no reason to smash teacups.

"My dear Jane, even without the war, it would be a difficult and risky venture. Will your father accompany you?"

"Papa!" Jane paused, quite astonished at the idea. "No, but he drew me a map—"

"Drew you a map!"

"Yes. I have the preparations well in hand. I bought the Pruitts' old coach—very large and sturdy. I've got a good team of six—"

Mary Laurens lowered her voice to tone of desperate calm. "Jane. We are in the middle of a war. You are a woman alone. Who will protect you?"

"I'm taking Letty and Biddy, of course; and Silas to drive and his son as footman."

"Jane! You should have an armed guard of at least four outriders! And that is in peacetime!"

"I can't imagine where I'd find armed guards. Any man able to bear weapons is already in some army or militia. I haven't any male relatives nearby to ask. I'll simply have to do the best I can. My husband needs my help. You cannot mean to persuade me to stay safe while—"

Her cousin caught her hand and squeezed it. Jane was so startled at such an emotional display that she fell silent.

Mary Laurens was actually upset, no longer speaking in the accustomed sugared drawl. "Jane! If the house were on fire, and you saw me running inside to get my figurines, wouldn't you try to stop me?"

"It's not the same thing!"

"It's just exactly the same. You are running straight into a blazing house and someone should hold you back."

Jane squeezed her cousin's hand in her turn. "I must go. Have some faith in me. I'll write to you as soon as I reach Camden, so you'll know I'm all right."

"You _are_ mad."

----- 

Silas' fiddle was actually the last thing put on the coach on the day they left. Silas had prudently stowed his beloved firearm with all its accoutrements into the driver's box somewhat earlier, so no one would take much notice of it. Afterwards, they were all in a bustle: loading, tying down, wrapping and covering, making last-minute checks, and finally, bidding friends and family farewell. There were tears shed for the slaves in the nursery, in the kitchen, in the slave quarters. Jane's servants shed a few of their own, though they were not going unwillingly.

No tears were shed for Jane. Selina did not feel up to leaving the house, and bid her a cool farewell in her own bedchamber. Unable to resist a final jibe, Selina said, "Do take good care of Colonel Tavington. He's a man who deserves everything a woman can give."

Jane smiled back tightly. "Do take good care of Little Ash, Selina. He deserves a decent mother." She turned her back, and left.

Outside, her father was waiting. Aunt Alice was there, too, though Jane had always expected that _she_ would do what was proper. Bows and curtseys were exchanged, decorous and meaningless. Her father even handed her into the coach personally. Jane decided that it was to make sure she really left. She sat back against the seat and took a deep breath, and smiled at her companions.

Silas looked around from the height of the driver's seat, wondering when he would see Charlestown again. He caught his son's eye, and they gave each other a nod. Without quite waiting for Rutledge to make a dignified step back to the front walk, Silas chirruped to the horses, and they lumbered away.

Down the street, around a corner, and out of the city. Unwillingly, Jane remembered her Cousin Mary's face, when she talked about running into a house afire. The image stayed with her, as she headed into the unknown.

The first leg of the journey went by quickly. Jane watched first Charlestown, and then the Carolina Low Country fall behind, as she headed into _terra incognita._ She had never been anywhere, except to Cedar Hill and a few neighboring plantations. As long as she could remember, everyone around her had spoke of the backcountry as a savage, dangerous place, populated by crude, uncivilized folk who were unfit for decent society. She was pleasantly surprised when they were directed to an inn that provided an edible meal and hot water to wash in.

_I suppose I'm having an adventure,_ she thought in wonder. _If this is the backcountry, it's not so very terrible._

As the days and miles passed, accommodations became more primitive, and the accents stranger. Biddy and Letty sometimes looked about fearfully at a new stop, but Jane thought of Miss Gilpin, who, after all, had crossed the ocean and come to Carolina from England years before, and who would not have been intimidated by uncouth ways. Jane tried to emulate her fearlessness, but realized that she must seem haughty rather than brave.

Yet even here, her father's name worked its magic. Some people scowled, and some muttered about the 'high-and-mighty Rice Kings,' but she was treated with respect on the strength of that relationship. It was her husband's name that gave the countryfolk pause, she realized. She had thought the stories about him absurd, and the usual lies any army spread about its enemy, but everyone seemed to believe them. One woman, hearing her name, spat at her feet, to her great astonishment.

_A rebel sympathizer,_ _clearly,_ she thought. _What a vulgar creature._

Following their map, they reached the town of Pembroke, and found it deserted. Possibly the inhabitants had found themselves in the direct path of war, and had fled. It was a neat little town, absent only a church to make it complete. Possibly there had been a church, for there had certainly been a fire. If not a church, then a large public house, or even a residence had been burned. Jane craned out of the window to see.

"That looks like a shop. Stop there."

Obediently, Silas reined in the horses in front of the little frame building, and Seth got down to call for the storekeeper. They heard him shouting, and in a few minutes he was back.

"Ain't nobody there, Miss Jane," he reported. "They's still goods there, but nobody come no matter how loud I holler."

They all got out to stretch their legs. Biddy found a good well, and the water barrel was refilled. Jane passed the empty, white-painted houses, the little log buildings, and felt somewhat disturbed. How strange for _everyone_ to be gone.

A sudden gust of wind pulled at her cloak. A shout followed. A ragged man reeled out of a little white house. "Eliza! I knew you'd come back!"

Biddy pulled at her sleeve. "Come on, Miss Jane. That man is drunk!"

"No, ma'am," whispered Letty. "Crazy."

The man shouted again, "Eliza!" He waved wildly, rocking back and forth with joy. He wiped his mouth, and started toward them.

Biddy made an anxious signal to Silas, who reached over and patted the musket beside him. "You come on now, Miss Jane. You don't know what some men out here might do."

Biddy and Letty were pushing her toward the coach, eager to get away. The man broke into a run.

"Eliza, wait!" His voice was hoarse, sounding rusty from lack of use. Jane wondered if there was something she ought to say to him, something she could do, but she could think of nothing, and, in fact, was fairly alarmed by the man herself.

Seth was shutting the door, and jumping up to the driver's box, to take up the fowling piece. Silas gave the reins a shake. "Get on, you horses!" The coach lurched, and Jane held on to the side, trying not to fall from the seat. The man was still calling.

"Stop, Eliza! Don't go!"

The voice cracked. Jane peered timidly out of the window, and saw the man shambling after them. An untrimmed beard veiled the open, wailing mouth.

"Eliza!"

-----

Another day passed, more miles vanished behind them. Rumors of militia bands—from both sides—were heard more frequently as they penetrated further north. The stories of the killings, the pillaging, the robberies grew uglier, more lurid. There seemed little to choose between Loyalist and Patriot. Jane became more uneasy, knowing that so far they had been lucky. It had sounded like a great adventure, and a noble deed, journeying into the hinterland to tend her wounded husband, but now she began to wonder if she had not been very foolish. South Carolina was so _big_—so much bigger than she had ever imagined. If they were to be accosted, no one might ever know their fate.

And they might not know themselves in danger until it was too late. How to tell friend from foe when everyone looked the same, dressed the same, spoke the same greetings, and paid the same meaningless compliments? Passing horsemen now struck little cold darts of fear into her heart. She was past the worst of her morning sickness, but the growing feeling of danger awakened the nausea again. At least she could pass it off to her servants so, without cutting a pitiful figure of cowardice before them. Twice they were accosted by redcoated officers, who seemed astonished to see a woman travelling with only her servants. Both very earnestly urged her to turn back, and Jane, just as earnestly, explained why that would be impossible.

Biddy had been wise in suggesting that they bring their own provisions. Two of the inns marked on her father's map were burnt-out shells. Another was a still standing, but proved to be no more than a crude log cabin, whose guest quarters were a pair of cornshuck beds in the loft. With some intrepidity, Jane decided she would sleep there, and persuaded the landlord to let her women share the loft with her—a great favor, since he thought his fine establishment lowered by the presence of slaves. Silas and Seth made do in the stable, thinking it advisable to take turns guarding the coach and the horses. As little as the landlord liked them, he and the old men who gathered at the little log tavern to drink were soothed by the sound of Silas' well-played fiddle.

They were still two days away from their destination when the horsemen came through the trees at the side of the road and stopped the coach.

Quiet they were, and grim. They hardly spoke to them, ignoring Silas and Seth completely, other than to give them terse commands. There were no explanations given, no excuses.

"You will get out of the coach, _now_," said their leader, unsmilingly and brusque. He was well dressed, and Jane tried to reason with him.

"Sir," she protested mildly, "we are only women. I am traveling north to tend my wounded husband." She wondered if she dared give his name. With a horrible, sick feeling, she began to think that these must be rebels. God alone knew what they would do if they knew she was Mrs. William Tavington. Cautiously, she said, "Ashbury Rutledge of Cedar Hill is my father."

One of the men flashed the leader a lifted brow. That man, however, simply gave her a long, expressionless look, and repeated. "You will get out of the coach, now—_ma'am_."

There was little else they could do. There were a least a dozen of them. If Silas or Seth were so foolish to fire upon them, they would be killed immediately. Biddy squeezed her hand, and inclined her head toward the door. Jane nodded.

Slowly, they descended from the coach. Seth handed her down, then Biddy and Letty. The women huddled together nervously. The two menservants hovered. A few of the men on horseback looked them up and down, assessing them.

"Bet that lady has some gold on her," one remarked to a fellow, as if the women were deaf.

"Have a look at the trunks first," another suggested.

"That's a purty gal," another observed, pointing at Letty. He and a friend strolled over for a better look.

Letty backed away, and clutched Biddy's hand. "Mama—"

"Hunh!" one of the men grunted at the other. "She's the old woman's. A high yellow. I'd have taken her for white, Nate."

"She's worth good money," his companion agreed. "I know a dealer who'll dig deep in his purse for a piece like that."

Jane gulped and spoke up. "If you are quite reassured that we pose no threat, sir, perhaps you will let us be on our way."

A few of the men chuckled. The leader ignored her, and instead dismounted and began examining the coach horses. "Strong animals," he observed to his lieutenant.

"They'll do for a fact," that man agreed, leaning over his horse to spit.

Jane kept her face calm and asked, "May I have your name, sir, and know your intentions toward us?"

The men, intent on the horses, did not answer at first. The leader was examining the team, and giving a cursory look to the carriage. He muttered, "We could drag it off the road out of sight. "Pollard!" he called, "Get the horses unharnessed and have the men move the coach into the trees before the regulars come through." He turned then to Jane, and said, "I am Captain William Cunningham. Some call me Bloody Bill."

He was not a rebel, as she had assumed. He was, instead, a very well known Loyalist militia leader. He was not a rebel, then, but for all he was a Loyalist, he was clearly not a friend. Jane took a deep breath and asked, "You cannot confiscate my horses. I am Jane Tavington. My husband is Lieutenant Colonel William Tavington of the Green Dragoons. "

Cunningham was unimpressed. "I hear he's like to die, up at Camden. The war's over for him, but not for me. I still need horses." He lost interest in her, and called his subordinates over for a discussion. They moved away, and occasionally looked back at Jane and her servants as if deciding what to do with them. There were quiet remarks and a few laughs. One of them said, in a louder voice, "—No need for that. What can she do about it, anyway?"

"—and the slaves would likely talk," a red-haired rifleman agreed. "No matter. Once in the woods we'll have time to go through it end to end."

Jane felt hot tears welling in her eyes, and tried to blink them away. These men would not be moved by a woman's pleading. They would take everything: all her food and her clothes, all her baby's linen. They would leave them here in the wilderness, in the cold of early February. And then how would she get to Camden? Still more frightening were the possibilities for her servants. Biddy and Letty said nothing. Biddy's head was bowed in prayer. Letty was shaking a little.

"You!" The leader shouted at Seth and Silas. "Get over here and help unharness these horses!"

Silas looked at the ground. Seth clenched his fists and shook his head.

At a sign from Cunningham, his men grabbed the two slaves and manhandled them away. Silas fell to the ground, and one their captors gave him an oath and a kick. Seth tried to help his father and was pummeled mercilessly. The militiamen found ropes to bind the men's wrist, and then dragged them out of sight, still struggling.

"Stop!" Jane shouted. "How dare you!" she cried at Cunningham, too angry to be fearful. "Those are my servants! How dare you hurt them! Let them go!"

She tried to run after them, but Cunningham reached out easily, and caught her painfully by the upper arm. "You'll be quiet, ma'am, if you have any sense.. I am requisitioning your slaves and horses."

"How am I to get to Camden?"

He made a vague, northerly gesture. "It's about twenty-five miles, that way. Just follow the road. If you start walking now, you should get there—" he gave her an amused, wintry look—"in a week or so, if you live that long."

Jane hissed through her teeth. "You are a thief, and a robber, and a bandit."

He shrugged. "Just fighting a war."

"You intend to loot my coach, as well."

He grinned, then. "How much do you think you can carry by yourself on your _march_ to Camden? No use in letting it go to waste." He walked away, no longer interested in her. He was about to call some of his officers over, when there was a new threat.

"Horsemen!" shouted a militiaman. From farther up the road a distant rumble of galloping horses shook the earth. Even the inexperienced Jane could tell it was a large force.

"Powell! Gibbs!" ordered Cunningham. "Have a look at them. The rest of you, withdraw into the woods." Casually, he glanced back at Jane and her servants. "You women too, get out of sight and keep your mouths shut."

A big man in a rough linen hunter's frock grabbed Jane's arm and pushed her ahead of him. "Get moving!"

Biddy followed, trying to keep up with Letty. She was knocked aside for her pains, and rolled down the other side of the hill. Two of the men, Nate and his friend Buck, had fastened on to Letty, muttering and leering. They pushed and dragged her up the rise and flung her into the underbrush. The man who had Jane shoved her down out of sight. She fell awkwardly, her hand scraping against the rough bark of a cedar.

"Ouch!" she hissed, slowly pulling off her glove and picking at the splinters in her palm. A few drops of blood oozed out. Her captor turned on her furiously.

"You shut up, gal!"

He was big and ham-fisted, and Jane shivered, pressing her lips together. She was so intent on keeping her distance from the man that she missed the first glimpse of the horsemen coming around the bend in the road. Then a flash of red caught her eye, and then she saw the distinctive helmets. A skull and crossbones, and the words "Or Glory." And then she realized she knew their leader. She staggered to her feet and waved.

"Oh! Mr. Nettles!" Jane cried out. "Mr. Nettles!"

The young officer's head swiveled toward her. He threw up a hand, and the cavalrymen pulled at the reins, milling about. Jane shoved the militiaman aside, and scrambled out of the brush. "Mr. Nettles! We need your help!"

-----

Harry Nettles heard the young woman's plea. A lady's voice, refined and modulated. He swung around in the saddle to look at her, not recognizing her at first, and then felt a surge of delight and surprise.

"Miss Rutledge!"

There was a growled curse from the militiamen in the trees. No use to hide. Grudgingly, they emerged. The leader, not at all abashed, walked out to greet the officer and identify himself.

"I'm Captain William Cunningham. These are my volunteers."

Jane glared with repulsion and fury at her captor. She made her way around him cautiously, nursing her hurt hand. The dragoon officer remained mounted, staring down at Cunningham.

"Henry Nettles. Seventeenth Light Dragoons. I've heard of you, Captain," he remarked coolly. "I am surprised to see Miss Rutledge in your company."

Jane had reached the two men by now, and blushed a little as she corrected him. "Mrs. Tavington, now, Lieutenant."

Nettles blushed himself. It was rude of him to ignore her marriage, unpleasant as he found the event. "I beg your pardon, madam. Mrs. Tavington, of course. How came you here?"

Jane gave Cunningham a wary, uneasy glance, which he returned stonily. "As you know, my husband was wounded at the Cowpens. I am on my way to care for him. These men seemed to think me some threat, and stopped my coach."

Cunningham gave a faint, impudent smile. "I was merely taking this lady under my protection."

Jane narrowed her eyes. "I believe I understood you to be taking my _horses_ and my _slaves_ under your protection. You suggested that I _walk_ to Camden."

Nettles turned a cold eye toward the militia leader. "No need for you to protect Mrs. Tavington or her horses. I will relieve you of that task." He turned to Jane. "I am at your service, madam. My men and I shall see you safe to Camden."

Jane was too relieved to be calm. "Oh, thank you, thank you, sir. We shall not delay you. Biddy! Letty! Come, the lieutenant is going to escort us!" She turned back to Nettles, and said, "My coachman and footman have been bound by Captain Cunningham's men."

Biddy climbed down the embankment cautiously, calling to Jane. "I don't know where Letty is, Miss Jane! Those men were trying to get her to go along with them!"

Jane turned big, pleading eyes in Nettles' direction. He rapped out, "Sergeant Eccles! Have your men collect the lady's servants and belongings—all of them! " He looked challengingly at Cunningham. "I hope that does not disoblige you, sir."

"Not at all, Lieutenant," shrugged Cunningham. "Since you vouch for the lady, I will leave her in your hands." He gave Jane a careless bow, and turned his back, sauntering off to seek easier prey.

Sergeant Eccles, tall and muscular, swung off his horse, along with a handful of troopers. The men trotted easily up the embankment, with Biddy following them as quickly as she could.

The militiamen were withdrawing, with loud complaints and considerable spitting. The dragoons outnumbered them, and soon had the six horses retrieved and the carriage ready for departure. Seeing that Cunningham was out of the way, Nettles was anxious to get moving again, and not sorry to put distance between himself and his dubious ally.

He saw her hand. "Are you injured?"

"Only some splinters. I am so, so relieved that you came. It seems a miracle. I am certain those men meant to rob me."

"At least."

Silas and Seth limped into view. Seth was supporting his father, and sported a bruised jaw. Silas was clutching his middle and wincing.

Seeing Jane's alarmed expression, Silas shook his head. "It ain't much, Miss Jane. I've had worse."

"Can you drive, or do you need to lie down?" she asked, feeling sorry for his injury, but vexed that they might be further delayed.

"I reckon I better let Seth do the driving for awhile, but I'll be fine tomorrow. I'll just sit up there on the box with him and rest." With Seth's help, he climbed carefully back up to the driver's seat and settled back with a faint groan. Seth bustled about to find a water jug, and helped his father to a long drink.

Nettles nodded, and turned his horse's head. "I shall be back shortly, Mrs. Tavington, to see to your progress. Let me know of anything else you require."

----- 

Letty had scrambled away for the second time, but Buck caught her by the hem of her cloak and hauled her off her feet again. Nate was sitting on a fallen tree nearby, considering her.

"Damn purty thing. Think the Colonel'd let us keep her for a day or two?"

"I reckon, if we go shares. He squatted next to Letty, who lay trembling. "You lie still, gal, or we give you something to make you quiet." They listened to the sound of the hoofbeats coming nearer. He lowered his voice and growled at his friend. "Soon as that ruckus passes by, let's flip a coin to see who goes first."

"Fair enough."

There was a woman's cry, and the passing horsemen were slowing to a halt. "Damn," Buck grunted, gripping his rifle. He exchanged looks with Nate. A toothless oldtimer grinned at them.

"Reckon you'll have better things to do than tend to a stiff rhubarb. Should have tied the wench to a tree."

Letty took a breath to call out, and Nate threatened her with the butt of his rifle. She shrank away, and he chuckled.

Buck peered over the rise. "It's redcoats. The Seventeenth, looks like. Captain's talking with 'em."

Nate sighed and lowered his rifle. Letty tried to understand what was happening. There was no time. Nate was reaching into a bag for a coin, and made to toss it in the air.

Buck grabbed his arm. "Nothin' doin'." He snarled. "Here," he said, passing the coin to the old man. "You do it. That way it's _fair."_

Letty took advantage of their distraction to crawl a few more feet, and slowly got her feet under her. Quick as a squirrel, she was up and running through the trees, her steps muffled by the carpet of pine needles.

"Buck! She's getting' away!"

Booted feet pounded after her, a quick soft sound. She dared not look behind. Skirts held up out of her way, she twisted through the tall straight trunks, ducking under low branches. Mama and Miss Jane must be up ahead, down the gully—

Something heavy slammed into her back, and she crashed to the ground, face-first. Half-stunned, she felt rough hands grabbing at her legs.

"Put her over the log there. She can't fight none, that way."

Desperately, she dug her fingers into the forest floor, trying to take root there. Ten trails snaked after her, digging through pine needles and rocks and damp sod, as she was pulled by the men, who each had her by a leg.

A new voice, gruff and commanding, said. "Let her go."

There was a pause, and the captors stopped in their tracks, dropping her legs.

"We're just having some fun. Hell, you can have a turn too, sergeant."

"That's so," Nate agreed. "One soldier to another."

Letty twisted around to see what was happening, while pushing down her petticoats in shame. She was just in time to see the big redcoated sergeant's fist smash Nate's grinning face. Buck stared in disbelief, and was next.

-----

Jane was relieved to see Sergeant Eccles come back in a few minutes, half-carrying a shaking Letty. Her dress was torn and her nose was bleeding. Biddy was hurrying alongside her, whispering urgently in her ear. Letty shook her head, gave a trembling smile, and her mother gasped out a smothered cry of relief.

"Are you badly hurt, Letty?" Jane called, still trying to dislodge the painful splinters in her hand.

"No. I'm all right, Miss Jane. Those men didn't do more than grab at me and say ugly things. I'm fine." She was not fine, but she thought she might be. It had been so wonderful to see the big, redcoated sergeant knock her attackers down. _I will never say bad things about Englishmen again, not even Miss Jane's husband._

"Thank God," Jane sighed.

Biddy saw Jane's hand, and turned it over to examine it. "I'll take a needle to those," she nodded, indicating the thin lines of grey piercing Jane's palm. "We'll soon have your hand right."

"We can worry about that later. See to Letty first," Jane said, wearily leaning against the coach. The water cask was opened, and Biddy washed the blood and dirt from her daughter's face.

Nettles returned. Jane got to her feet and managed a smile. "It is so pleasant to see you again, Mr. Nettles. Is not Mr. Patterson with you? I shall never forget the gallantry the two of you showed me at my father's ball."

The lieutenant's face darkened. "Tom's dead at the Cowpens."

Jane hardly knew what to say. "I am very sorry to hear it. He was so young."

"Yes, a great shame: but he wasn't the only one."

It occurred to Jane that she had been remiss in asking about her own husband. "Mr. Nettles, my last news was weeks ago. Do you happen to know if my—have you heard if Colonel Tavington still lives?"

The young man regarded her gravely. He still remembered the elegant young lady of the ball last spring. This was a different woman: anxious, travel-stained, and weary from her journey and its dangers. And yet, there was a certain glow about her he found quite appealing. He had liked her from their first meeting, and was not about to stop now. Kindly, he told her what he knew.

"I was at Camden four days ago, and he was alive then. He's not well, but he's still with us. I have visited from time to time, but he's not always quite in his right wits—fever, you know. I am sure—" He bit his lip, still feeling a faint resentment, but determined to get the better of it. "—I am sure he will be very glad to see you. You are a brave woman to come to him."

Jane smiled doubtfully. "A foolish one, perhaps."

"Hardly that." He dismounted, and came forward to help the women into the carriage.

"Then," she amended, smiling at him in a way that touched his heart. "A very _lucky_ one, today." She was once more settled securely against the faded cloth of the cushions. She smiled again, with a sigh of relief.

He smiled back, wishing for impossible things. "It was my honor to serve you. 'All's well that ends well.'"

-----

**Next—Chapter 18: Reunion in Camden  
**


	18. Reunion in Camden

**Chapter 18: Reunion in Camden  
**

One day was wretchedly like another: the pain, the filth, the stench, the shattering boredom. Tavington lay on the soiled straw of the field hospital trying to keep his mind active and healthy, as he marked time by light and darkness, by the disgusting slops the surgeon's assistants spooned into him, by the changes of his foul bandages, by the surgeons coming to bleed him. He was a mass of sores from the lancets. Some of the wounds had become red and angry. Recently he had imagined getting hold of a pistol and shooting the next man who came to cut him. A pleasant pipe dream. No one was going to save him from this hell. He must endure, and save himself.

Cornwallis, he knew, was angry with him—but there was nothing new in that. He might blame him for the defeat, but it was Cornwallis who had pushed the troops too fast and too far; Cornwallis who had committed them to battle without scouting first. If Tavington could but survive, and return home, he felt he could more than defend himself. In fact, he could wreak his revenge on Cornwallis for his soft-headed, soft-hearted, weak-willed pursuit of the war.

_An iron fist is all these rebels understand._

He recalled, with furious loathing, his duel with Benjamin Martin. How unfortunate, what damned bad luck, to meet the swine when he himself was exhausted and wounded. If he ever had the chance to face his nemesis again, he would be prepared—in peak condition, and armed to the teeth. He must live, if only to spite Cornwallis and to seek revenge on the rebel bastard who had savaged him.

Despair welled up. He drifted in and out of consciousness; sometimes feverish and confused, sometimes chilled and desolate; sometimes in a drugged haze of laudanum. Always, always, there was the pain. Now and then, he thought Moll Royston or Nan Haskins had come to feed and clean him, but they could not heal his wounds, and they could not take him from the hospital. He was so alone: forgotten in this hellish place. Rawdon had visited him once or twice: a few others, like Nettles of the 17th had looked in, but their brief visits only punctuated the endless stretches of nothingness. Life was moving on without him. Another man was leading his dragoons, and Tavington was trapped in this field hospital in the middle of nowhere.

It was cold. Tavington shivered under the rough horseman's blanket. He slept as much as possible: to conserve his strength, and to make the time pass somehow. It was hard to keep track of the days. He had heard it was February, but was not sure of the day. He lay one afternoon in passive wretchedness, when he heard raised voices outside.

"Madam! You must wait, and we shall take you to the Colonel. He is extremely weak, and such a surprise might injure him."

"What utter nonsense," remarked a familiar, acerbic, female voice. "I wish to see my husband at once. I hardly think he will expire with happiness at the sight of me."

Tavington began to smile, and a faint thrill of hope quickened his blood. _She's here. I cannot believe it._

But it was undeniably Jane. Jane in a dark traveling cloak, with her loyal retainers in her train: Biddy, dignified and compassionate, looking about with grim disapproval; and her pretty daughter Letty, arms full of bundles. Jane had seen him, and was coming his way, a shocked expression on her face.

_He looks like a ghost!_ she thought, appalled. William Tavington, the handsome rake of Charlestown, was as thin and white as a sheet of paper. Paper-like, too, was the translucent skin pulled too tightly over the too-prominent bones. He was awake and his pale, arresting eyes were fixed on her. He was happy to see her.

_And so he should be!_ Jane took in the terrible place at a glance. Her husband was lying in straw not fit for horses. The entire place reeked of urine and voided bowels. The men were filthy and riddled with sores. William was heavily bandaged: obviously naked under what looked like a horse blanket. She walked quickly among the cots, ignoring the surgeon's protests behind her.

"He must stay here, Mrs. Tavington! He is far too ill to be moved. He must be here for regular bleedings, or he will surely die!" Jane paused to look at the surgeon, his work apron covered with indescribable foulness. She pressed her lips together, and turned away. As she walked toward him, Tavington heard her angry muttering.

"He can at least die more comfortably than the Army would permit! I hardly see that anything I could do would be worse than _this!"_

Tavington was already smiling slightly as his wife reached his bedside.

"Good day to you, Madam," he whispered. "I hope your journey has been agreeable." Abruptly, his eyes closed and he was asleep once more.

It was impossible to sleep soundly. Jane was not angry with _him_, it seemed, for a pleasant change. She was speaking sharply to the surgeon. She sent a servant out to look for something. Biddy and Letty were bustling around him. He liked the idea of being attended to, but was ready for another nap. He fell asleep, lulled by Jane's pointed questions and inflexible demands

The next time he awakened, he was on a stretcher, and being carried from the hospital. The fresh, clean air was a shock, but a good one. He was lifted high, into an enormous carriage, and laid on a bed of down inside. Women's petticoats rustled around him, and the coach began to move. He fell asleep again, as if rocked in a cradle.

-----

"Moll, she's gone and taken him away!"

The Green Dragoons' head laundress looked at pretty young Nan Haskins with considerable compassion. "Well, she's his wife, ain't she? I reckon she's the one who ought to be taking care of him. Good for her, I say."

Nan shook her head miserably. "I may never see him again."

"Don't twist good linen like that. You sit and let me do it. Here." Moll Royston gave the girl a heavy mug of what was purported to be tea: hot water colored with tea leaves steeped for the third time. At least it was warming and would help calm the younger woman down. Moll waited until Nan was drinking, and then said brusquely, "It's time you moved on, honey. It's no good dangling after the Colonel: he's a married man. Even if he weren't sore wounded and well-nigh dead--even if he weren't a gentleman, he wouldn't be for you—not legal, anyways. I'd find myself another regiment and another sweetheart."

"_You_ haven't moved on," Nan replied, too unhappy to be polite.

"I ain't done mourning for Royston, that's a fact. I'm not sweet on the Colonel, nor expecting things I can't get. You're a pretty girl, Nan, and you're young. You can still find yourself a good man who'll do right by you. You get out there and find him."

"I could still do the Colonel's laundry. I expect that fine lady won't know the first thing about life in the army, her and her servants and her fancy carriage! Probably never had to wash so much as a handkerchief in her life."

"And why would she, if she _is_ a fine lady? Wouldn't be fitting. You stay away from the Colonel, Nan. I'm telling you true. You'll just make misery for yourself. I reckon Mrs. Tavington _will_ need help. If anybody sees to the Colonel's linen, it'll be me!" She took the girl by the chin and looked gravely into the clear grey eyes. "You know I'm right."

"I know." Nan gave a resigned nod. She would not leave the safety of the fort, of course. Cornwallis had left all the women behind, when he headed north. But Moll was right: there was the garrison here, and a whole fort full of convalescent men. Tavington might well die, anyway. There was a sergeant in the Volunteers of Ireland who had sought her out, and spoken kindly to her. Nan gave Moll another nod, and turned away, pulling her cloak around her against the wind.

-----

"Not bad, Miss Jane," Letty said, admiring the room. "Not bad at all."

Jane had a rag in her hand, and was clearing dust from the split-log mantel. "The owners had fled, and with the departure of Lord Cornwallis and his army, there was just the garrison, and so not such a demand for billets. Lord Rawdon was very kind." She paused, and looked at the little room with a firm nod of satisfaction. "It will do, Letty. It will do very well."

She glanced over at Tavington, asleep in the big bed that had been brought down from the larger of the two upstairs rooms and placed in the tiny parlor. It was a little backcountry house, and better than many, with wooden siding covering the original log walls. It had four rooms, two below and two above: in addition to the parlor, there was a big kitchen that would do for the servants' dining and sitting as well as cooking. A narrow bed was found for Jane, so she could sleep in Tavington's room without disturbing his rest. A small table and a pair of plain wooden chairs, a washstand, a candlestand, and a rocking chair were the only other furnishings. Jane's little spinet was pushed tidily into a corner, and Jane promised herself that she would take the time to tune it when Tavington was not so ill. Biddy and Letty would share one of the upstairs rooms, and Silas and Seth the other. It was no Cedar Hill, but they could survive. Jane had never been in such a small house in her life, but compared to the rough taverns and inns or sleeping in the coach, it was luxury indeed. The stable was of logs, and not in good repair, but it would provide shelter for the horses. The coach would have to bear the weather, for there was no room to put it under cover.

The parlor was the best room in the house: the only one with plastered walls. They had moved out the wooden settle and most of the chairs, placing them around the kitchen hearth. Letty made up the beds and swept the floors. Biddy was already at work in the kitchen, cooking down a shockingly expensive chicken for broth for Tavington, and supper for everyone else. It was a miracle that any chicken within twenty miles had survived the residence of an army. Alas, the chicken itself was a tough old rooster, and even after hours of stewing, was not likely to be a toothsome meal.

But the broth would be better than the viscous, mysterious substance that was being fed to the patients at the hospital. No—the staff there meant well, for the most part, but were too understaffed and too low on resources to give the men the kind of care they needed. At least there would be one less for them to worry about.

_And if he must die, at least he can die in relative comfort._ Jane sighed. She had spent so many months nursing her grievances, and thinking only of her own hopes and plans, that it quite took the wind out of her sails to find Tavington so frail and diminished.

_No doubt he'll be angry that I left Papa's house. If we're to quarrel, he'll need to build up his strength first._

A rap at the front door, made her look up from her contemplation of her husband. Letty went to see who it might be, and the raucous female voice had Jane rushing into the little hallway to moderate the disturbance.

A tall, red-haired woman loomed in the doorway, peering eagerly around Letty. She balanced a huge basket of washing on one shelf-like hip. Over her shoulder was slung a battered musket.

"Mrs. Tavington? The Colonel's wife?"

Jane came forward, wondering what this strange woman wanted.

"I am Mrs. Tavington. How may I---"

"Don't let me trouble you, ma'am. I reckon you got enough to do. Just came by for any washing you need done."

"Oh! You're the laundress---"

"Moll Royston's the name. Just plain Moll. The Colonel's a fine man." Briefly, the plump, florid cheeks assumed an unwonted gravity. "—A fine man. Always did right by me and mine, the Colonel. Only right I come to pay my duty to you, ma'am. This your sister? You favor each other a little around the jaw."

Letty's eyes were enormous.

"Ah—" choked out Jane, embarrassed and nonplussed. "Letty is my maid. And I do believe we have some linen for you. Ah--do you always carry a musket with you?"

Moll grinned and jerked her head at her weapon. "Wouldn't be without it. This house ain't in the inner works, ma'am. The world's full of varmints, and the menfolk ain't always there to protect the womenfolk."

Jane thought over her journey, and puzzled over the term 'inner works.' Army jargon, of some sort. "No, indeed. That is very--sensible of you."

The huge woman remained at the door, chatty and unabashed, while Letty was sent to round up all the household's soiled linen. Seth, when applied to, ran upstairs to put on his one spare shirt and put the garment that he had worn all the way from Charlestown into the welcome wash.

Desperate to quiet the boisterous laundress down, Jane fell to speaking in a repressive whisper. It took a full minute, but soon Moll was whispering in her turn, and took up her huge basket of washing again with no visible effort.

"You need anything, ma'am, you just holler."

"Thank you," Jane replied, still astonished, watching the Amazon amble away.

Letty was watching her too. "That's the biggest woman I've ever seen. She's bigger than most of the soldiers in camp."

Jane began to smile. "She'd do for a soldier. Too bad we didn't have her with us when Cunningham's men stopped us. She could have taken them on single-handed."

In the kitchen, they found Biddy at work at the freshly scrubbed table, making poultices for the Colonel's wounds. Various pots simmered or boiled at the hearth, in addition to the chicken. A chipped basin and pitcher stood nearby.

Biddy looked up. "Letty, honey," she told her daughter. "Go to the medicine box and get out some bandages. First thing we do, we're going to wash the Colonel and change all his dressings. Them things on him are dirty as a pig wallow. I got some nice poultices made up new, the way my Mama taught me."

Jane was nervous about such an undertaking, and glad to do as she was told. With jug and basin, with medicines and poultices, the women entered the tidy little parlor like a procession of priestesses. A good fire was made up on the hearth, and towels were placed to keep the bed dry. Bit by bit, they washed her husband's injured body.

"Just one part at a time," Biddy told her, "and then dry and cover him up. You don't want him catching no chill." Jane agreed. He groaned and muttered as the warm water touched his flesh, but only once half-opened his eyes.

Jane had seen him naked on more than one occasion, but had never looked at him in such a focused way. An arm, exposed, examined, washed, dried, and carefully covered. His legs, long and strong.

"Needs his nails trimmed," Biddy observed, "we'll do that soon."

His most intimate parts were uncovered, and Biddy nodded at her to busy herself with washing. Jane blushed and looked away as she wiped at him quickly.

"Don't be that way, honey. You wash him proper. That's not going to do no good. " She showed Jane how to do it, explaining each step. "You need to know this honey, in case you have a little boy. You don't want him dirty and sore 'cause you want to be a lady."

"No, of course not," Jane agreed, thinking how glad she was that Biddy would be in charge of such things. On the other hand, it was a useful thing to know for her husband's sake.

The water in the basin was growing grey. Biddy sent Letty to empty the basin out back and fetch more hot water.

The next step was to deal with his injuries. Jane felt quite sick at the sight of her husband's torn flesh. Letty glanced at her in concern, but Biddy remained calm. "Of course you feel bad for him, honey, but that don't do him no good. You got to take care of him, even if it's hard."

The shoulder wound was very bad indeed. Biddy clicked her tongue at the sight, and slowly removed the filthy poultice. "Get rid of this," she murmured to Letty.

Taking her time, she looked at the wound and prodded it very gently. "Some proud flesh here, but not as bad as it might be," she told Jane. She tended to this part of the washing herself, and then bound the wound afresh. Jane puzzled over the odd things in the poultice: moss and green mold and spider webs and all manner of strangeness, but Biddy seemed confident it would do him good.

"Don't you let those doctors draw any more blood, honey," Biddy urged her. "He's just about as pale as milk now. He don't need to lose no more blood. Look here how they got him all tore up."

"But the surgeons—"

"Honey—men _die_ from losing too much blood. I don't set no store by bleeding." Biddy went on, carefully removing the filthy dressings, and replacing them with clean ones. She worked quickly, trying to keep her patient warm. Jane nearly fainted at the sight of the hole in his side. It took over an hour, but Tavington was considerably cleaner by the end of it. Jane touched his still face, the fine-cut jaw dark with stubble.

Biddy smiled at that. "Next you'll need to learn to shave him, honey. Men like that."

"I--Handle a razor? More likely he'd want Seth."

Biddy just smiled the more. "Now why would he want Seth when he can have you? You'll see."

Tavington opened his eyes to the wavering light of a candle by his bed. It took a moment to realize that he was in a proper bed, and not laid on straw. It was strange, and deliciously comfortable. He looked across the room and saw Jane, sitting in a rocking chair. She looked very amiable, not frowning as she so often did.

He watched her for awhile. She was sewing some small white things. Some female folderol. No, perhaps that was something for the child. His child. A slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Ah! Now she was frowning again, concentrating on her tiny stitches.

Biddy glided into the room and saw that Tavington was awake. She gave him a quiet nod, and murmured to Jane. "The broth is ready, honey. Will you feed him, or should I?"

Tavington waited, feeling a little flutter of hope.

Jane said, "I'll do it. What about our supper?"

"I thought that old devil weren't never going to give up, but I took a good, sharp knife to him, and he done give up at last."

Tavington was rather alarmed by this exchange, but reasoned that he could by no means be described as an "old devil."

All became clear, when Biddy left and returned with a tray bearing a bowl of steaming broth. It smelled rather nice, he thought. Letty entered, too, and he was presently surrounded by a trio of females, gently propping him up, and hovering as Jane sat to spoon broth into him. Had he not been so weak, he would have laughed at the sight of the three women over the steaming bowl, watching him intently. They reminded him of the three witches in _Macbeth, _but they might not appreciate being told such a thing.

But he was very weak, and glad of something better than the hospital slops. Jane, rather shyly, sat on the edge of the bed, spoon in hand. Letty held a napkin to keep him clean, and Biddy stood by, sternly watchful. _After all_, he decided, _it's not really that amusing. It's actually rather—disturbing._ He set such thoughts aside wearily, and tried not to take notice of the three pairs of female eyes watching every spoonful fed to him. It was a little embarrassing, too. Opening his mouth for the spoon made him feel—"like a baby bird," he whispered.

"You hush now, Colonel," Biddy reproved him. "You just take every drop of that broth, and then go back to sleep."

But then, the broth finished, and the women's eyes no longer fastened to the movements of the spoon, Tavington pronounced his need to relieve himself. Biddy was prepared for that too, producing a ridiculously elaborate _pot de chambre _she had brought from Jane's room in Charlestown, and organizing her assistants to attend him. Tavington demurred at some of the arrangements.

"Surely it is not necessary for Letty—"

Biddy sniffed, and told Letty to serve up Miss Jane's supper here, and then call in Silas and Seth to the kitchen for theirs. That still left his newly acquired nursemaid and his young wife to help him. It was significantly different from the care in the hospital, and Tavington managed a little amused smile for his wife, as she touched and tended him so conscientiously.

At last he consented to lie back, unable to suppress a faint groan, and Jane gave him some laudanum drops. "Don't leave," he whispered, as he began drifting into a drugged haze.

"No, indeed," she promised, sitting down to a crockery dish of boiled chicken with cornmeal dumplings. "I shall have my supper and sit with you. I'm not going anywhere."

Somewhat troubled, a flicker of memory made him frown. "I told you to stay in Charlestown until I came for you."

Biddy smiled as she left the room and shut the door. Jane looked up from her dinner, quite composed. "So you did. And I said that if you didn't come for me, I would hunt you down. And so I did. And here I am."

Not quite rational, he shut his eyes, and murmured. "Good."

-----

In the comfortable warmth of the kitchen, Biddy told her that they still might lose him. "Those wounds could turn bad, honey—and he's got a lot of them. All we can do is keep him clean and warm and fed."

An army surgeon, Mr. Smith, came by every day to look at those various wounds. Jane steeled herself to stand there, watching, while the man probed for pus and foreign matter. William would clench his teeth and moan. It was all Jane could do to keep from flying at the well-meaning Smith and boxing his ears. The man sniffed at Biddy's dressings, but let her have her way. And after every visit, Biddy insisted on washing the wounds again with wine, and redressing them.

"Don't hold with _doctors_," she scoffed. "They do more harm than good, with all their bleedings and their fancy talk." Biting her lip, she told Jane, "If I hadn't been just out of childbed myself, I could have tended your poor Mama when you were born, 'stead of some _doctor_ killing her. Doctors are _no good_."

Jane, trusting in Biddy's wisdom, tended to think so too, though some of them had sensible ideas about keeping the camp clean. She had always found army talk terribly boring, but now she was in an army camp herself, and it all had new meaning for her. She tried hard to understand about the various regiments, and their officers. Men could get very touchy if one mistook their rank. If she was to be an army wife, she must do a proper job of it.

She had a new helper and ally. The day after her arrival, there was a knock at the door, and a pale and worn-looking Captain Bordon was shown in to pay a call. Jane had liked him in Charlestown, though she knew he was her husband's friend rather than her own. Nonetheless, he was a tactful man, and knew how to conduct himself in a sick room. Jane was glad of such a visitor, and they conversed quietly.

Jane could not help but notice that he was unwell. "You were also wounded in the battle, sir?"

He shook his head. "Alas, I was wounded in a skirmish some days before and missed the Cowpens altogether. We were attacked by a band of rebel militia, and I was stabbed. Nearly the end of me, but the Colonel--" he gestured at the sleeping Tavington "--fought off the last of the devils, even though he had been shot himself, and rode for help. I undoubtedly owe him my life." He turned a grave gaze on Jane. "He is a very brave man, and a brilliant fighter. You, as a woman, cannot know what a fine soldier he is. I can only ask that you take my word for it."

"Oh, I don't doubt you in the least. I know I'm terribly ignorant of military matters. Perhaps you can help me understand more about them. Sometimes Colonel Tavington wakes, and is full of questions about the situation, and I hardly know what to say."

Bordon smiled. "An excellent notion." Letty appeared, with a steaming pot and cups. Bordon raised a pleased brow. "Is that real tea?"

"And sugar, if you like."

The captain enjoyed his two cups, and stayed to talk quietly for some time, glad of something to do. His wound had been too severe to recover in time to leave with Cornwallis and the army heading north, and he found himself somewhat at loose ends. "When I'm a bit better, I'll apply to Lord Rawdon for some sort of staff work. I confess I'm somewhat concerned about my professional future. Perhaps I should have listened to my parents and taken orders."

"You were to be a clergyman?"

"Yes, but I preferred a life of adventure. I've certainly had my share."

"I wish you _were_ a clergyman. Then you could have married us instead of that dreadful Mr. Blethers!"

Tavington opened his eyes at the sound of Bordon's muffled laugh. "Bordon," he whispered, recognizing his friend. A faint smile brightened the pale face.

Bordon pulled his chair closer to the bed, and spoke softly to the wounded man. "Colonel, how do you do? I am very happy to find you awake and in such good hands."

"Yes," Tavington managed, after a little cough. "Mrs. Tavington is looking after me now. So agreeable." He licked dry lips. "Is that tea?"

Jane smiled, and fixed a cup with plenty of sugar, as Biddy had advised. Once it cooled a little, she found Bordon quite amenable to helping her raise Tavington enough to sip from it. To her surprise, he eagerly drank it all down, and seemed the better for it. He was settled back on his pillows, and gave them a stronger smile.

Bordon told him, "I had heard of Mrs. Tavington's arrival, and came to pay my duty to her." He turned to Jane, and asked, "Is your father not in at the moment?"

"My father?" Jane was puzzled. "My father is in Charlestown."

Quite appalled, Bordon controlled his face with an effort. "He did not accompany you?"

"No," she replied. "But he did copy out a good map of the road before I left. It was most helpful."

"Indeed." Bordon maintained his calm, deeply shocked that a father would allow his young daughter to travel alone and unprotected through a countryside at war. He thought of his own little girl, and found the whole thing incomprehensible. "I hope your journey was---" he coughed to cover his confusion "—safe and comfortable."

"Not too bad, really, except at the end. My servants are so very steady and faithful, and gave me such good advice about supplying myself. I should not have thought of the tea, but for my maid Biddy."

Tavington had not really been clear-headed enough to think before about what the journey must have been like for Jane. He fastened on what was unsaid. "And what happened to distress you at the end?"

"Oh—" she said, not wanting to make much of it. "We were stopped by Captain Cunningham and his militia. There was some misunderstanding. However, Mr. Nettles and his dragoons were there, and dealt with it. Then Mr. Nettles escorted us to Camden, and all was well."

Bordon smiled, with an uneasy look at his Colonel. "Excellent."

"As you say," Tavington murmured, feeling sleepy again. When he was better, he would have to have the whole story, so he could know if Bloody Bill deserved to be added to the list of men he needed to kill.

-----

He slept on and off through the following days and nights, reveling in the comfort of the feather bed, hoping he did not soil it too badly. Soft, female voices, slow and thick with the accent of Carolina, were equally comforting. Sometimes everything seemed dreamlike, and at others of unnatural clarity. Bordon had visited, he remembered, as he had often at the hospital, but he seemed to recall him _here._ There were other male voices, heard from another room—equally soft Carolina voices. More servants, perhaps?

Once he heard Lord Rawdon's rather nasal tones, as if from a great distance, speaking to his wife. Had Rawdon come to call? Tavington tried to attend to the conversation, but the threads of it eluded him.

The laudanum had dulled his pain, but not extinguished it. It remained, crouching in wait, straining at the leash, ready to spring out and tear at him if the drug weakened. When those times came, he could not keep quite still, and once he called out for Lucy to fetch Mamma, until he remembered that he was not at home in England.

The women of the household surrounded him periodically, like his personal _hareem,_ or perhaps like the ladies at King Arthur's deathbed. If he were to die, how surprising to see only gentle, kind faces. Jane, his wife, would sit and spoon invalid food into him: now broth, now sweet rice cooked soft, now some corn mush. It was so _clean_. He was so clean. He had never quite appreciated being clean as he should. He woke again to hear Biddy talking about shaving him. That would be wonderful.

Biddy smiled when his eyes opened, and he was still and quiet while the good woman showed his wife how it was done. Jane was frightened of the razor, but willing to learn. Slowly and carefully, between them the two women succeeded in getting him shaved, while the pretty Letty kept them supplied with soap and hot water. The light sweep of the razor, the drip of the water, another sweep, a delicate rasp up under his chin, under his nose. He was toweled dry in soft pats by Jane's little hands. She leaned over him, looking very serious. He caught the whiff of lavender and lemon.

"How nice you smell."

Drowsiness washed over him, and eyes half-shut, his lashes refracted the dim sphere of candlelight into little rainbows. The shimmers of green and red and yellow faded to grey, and his eyes closed.

-----

**Notes:** Here I must give a belated acknowledgement to pigeonsfromhell, whose plot bunny I appropriated. In her original sketch, this would have been pretty much the end of the story, but as the following chapter indicates, I couldn't stop here!

Thank you again to all my reviewers. I have, I swear, been replying to every signed review. Unfortunately, fanfiction dot net seems to be misbehaving again. I really do look forward to hearing from my readers!

** Next—Chapter 19: Little House in the Backcountry**


	19. Little House in the Backcountry

**Chapter 19: Little House in the Backcountry**

Mist rose up from the frosty earth. Jane looked out the window and saw it would be a cold but sunny day. The echoing thud of Seth chopping wood was home-like and reassuring. She turned and made up her little bed quickly. William was still asleep, pale and quiet. He did not wake for the sound of Seth's axe, or for Silas fetching water, or for Letty and Biddy, clattering in the kitchen getting breakfast. Not even the distant call of bugles from the camp could stir him from a deep slumber. With another glance at her husband, she went to the kitchen to help her servants, shutting the door silently behind her.

"Good morning, Miss Jane," Letty greeted her.

"'Morning, honey." Biddy was lifting a baking of corn dodgers from the hearth.

"Good morning." Jane felt it might indeed be good. Her cloak hung from a nail by the door. She threw it on, and walked outside to the privy, brown leaves crunching beneath her feet. Her breath puffed out whitely before her, and the chill made her nose ache. She used the crude facilities with dispatch, glad to get back to the warmth of the kitchen.

This little log house was a home of her own. When Jane had dreamed of independent establishments, she had not pictured an unpainted, plank-sided log cabin in the backcountry, but it was hers to command while she stayed here. No bellowing orders came issued from a forbidding study, no penetrating odor of patchouli and jasmine turned her stomach.

On the other hand, she faced challenges she had never imagined. She had always pictured a sizeable mansion, much like her father's houses (_but pleasanter!)_ when daydreaming about her future. She and William were living in a single room that served for sleeping, sitting, and dining. It was less cramped than she had feared at first, for her servants seemed to find their rooms above and the use of the kitchen quite sufficient, but it had all demanded concession and adaptation from Jane. The little house was draughty, and dirt and wood dust from the unplastered ceilings drifted down continually. The privy and stable were so close that a faint tang of urine and horse manure underlay all the cooking smells inevitable in a small house that contained its own kitchen. Mice were an ever-present plague. Possibly a dog or two about the place might help the mouse problem, if not improve the general odor. _I wish we had a cat. _But there were none to be had, out here on what seemed like the frontier to Jane.

When they had reached Camden, she had strained her eyes, trying to see the town. Finally, it became apparent that the few scattered houses and stables _were_ the town, which was completely dwarfed by the army encampment and the fine fortifications begun by Lord Cornwallis and completed by Lord Rawdon.

She knew the little town fairly well now: easy enough, when there was no more creditable street than Broad Street (the name was a gross exaggeration, in Jane's opinion). There were a few little shops, a small church, and a great many soldiers. Jane was glad she had arrived after the departure of the majority of the army.

Biddy's wisdom in advising her to buy their own supplies was humbling to Jane. Now she wished she had brought _more._ The army was on short commons as it was, and did not need additional mouths to feed. She opened the rice cask and set about making some gruel for William. She hated seeing the level lower, day by day, with no guarantee that she could get more when it was gone. It made a very digestible food for an invalid, and Jane was keeping it back for her husband's sole consumption right now. It would last for some months, with care. She had never had to worry about having food before. Now she wished she had brought a box of apples, and spices and raisins and chocolate!

Perhaps that was why she had no trouble eating now. When a bowl of cornmeal mush and molasses was put before her for her dinner, she was hungry for it. Her baby inside her made demands, and she was working harder than she ever had in her life. She could not leave all the housework to Letty and Biddy, and William needed constant care. Perhaps for that reason, she was sleeping well, too, even though it had been difficult, at first, to adjust to the feel (and _noise_) of sleeping on a straw tick, instead of a feather bed. And if Biddy had not insisted, Jane would not have brought enough warm bedding, either.

She had written twice to her Cousin Mary. The first letter had advised her of Jane's safe arrival. After looking about her, Jane had written again, and enclosed money and a shopping list. Lord Rawdon was kind enough to send her letters with his dispatches. Supplies were still coming in to Charlestown. Her cousin could purchase from the list, and with any luck, the items would eventually arrive. Sooner rather, than later, Jane hoped.

All and all, though, she was happy to be here. There was a feeling of accomplishment in facing danger and surviving it. And William had truly needed her. Odd, how it was easier to call her husband by his Christian name even in her thoughts now. Perhaps it was his frail, dependent state that made him seem more—_human_—to her. He had been holding his own—barely—when they arrived, but Jane was convinced that a longer stay in the hospital would have ultimately killed him. He was improving now, at least a little. Under Biddy's watchful eye, he seemed to have turned a corner. His color was a little better, and he was awake more of the time. And _then_ Jane had to find ways to keep him occupied and content.

The rice was on the boil now, and Jane would cook it into mushiness, and serve it to her husband sweetened with sugar. An egg or a bit of cream would make it more nourishing, but eggs and cream were hard to procure. She would send Letty and Seth to the shops to see what they could find for ready money. Anything to vary the diet of fat bacon and corn mush would be welcome. Anything, at least, but the maggoty beef that came all the way from England and served for army rations. Jane shuddered, hoping that the day would not come when she was so hungry that even _that_ would seem palatable. Silas and Seth were more than willing to hunt and fish, but for their own safety Jane dared not let them wander too far afield. It was winter, and the pickings were slim.

She poured the gruel into a small bowl, and carefully scraped a little sugar from the loaf to stir in. Their one decent tray was arranged with a cup of tea, the bowl of porridge, and a silver spoon and linen napkin of Jane's. She carried it into the sickroom and saw that William was awake and looking for her. She gave him a smile.

"Breakfast is ready, William."

A wan smile answered hers. "Impeccable service."

She set the tray on the little table, and helped him sit a little more upright. Tavington leaned forward, stiffly and painfully, to allow another pillow to be slipped behind him. He lay back on it with a sigh. Jane pulled the table closer and reached for the bowl.

"I believe I can feed myself today, Jane." Tavington waved off her proffered help and took the bowl and spoon into his own hands. "I need to do things for myself."

That was too true for contradiction, so Jane sat quietly, ready to take the items when he was finished. Slowly, with careful deliberation, Tavington set about using the oddly heavy spoon. Half-way through he was tired, but kept at it doggedly, determined to get well. There was a scant spoonful left when he finished, and Jane scraped it up. "Let me give you this last bite."

"If you must."

The bowl and spoon were set aside, and Jane helped him with the heavy cup. He was glad of the tea. It warmed something deep inside and filled him with new energy. He shifted position and gasped with a sudden pain. He was somewhat amused at his wife's sympathetic wince.

"I would have imagined you'd enjoy seeing me suffer. Haven't you wished for this?"

Jane grimaced impatiently. "Well—perhaps not so much as you might think. I don't deny that from time to time I thought you deserved your share of misery—just not like this, and not with me nursing you."

He smiled, more genuinely this time. "But you do it so well. You've a talent for nursing—or perhaps I'm just happy to see you."

"Really?" She paused, and looked at him thoughtfully. "That hardly seems likely. I was expecting you to be angry."

"No, truly." He reached out to take her hand. "I am very happy and grateful that you came. This is paradise compared with the hospital. I really thought I would die there."

She kept his hand in hers. "Will—William. You're not yet out of danger. Your recovery will be long and difficult, and I imagine you'll be thoroughly sick of me by the time you're well."

"Possibly. We'll find out." He stroked her hand with his thumb, a light caress that threatened her composure.

_Don't be sweet and loving now, you wicked, wretched man. I couldn't bear it._

He was still smiling at her, his gaze travelling to her swollen middle. "Being with child becomes you, Jane. Your skin is glowing, your features are fuller, your figure altogether improved. Are you quite well?"

"Oh, yes! I'm past the early days when I felt a little discomposed sometimes. I'm quite well."

"And do you," he paused, and a flicker of tenderness crossed his face, "ever feel the child move?"

"Yes." She smiled in her turn, and moved a little closer. "At first it was just a little trickling sensation, like a tiny stream flowing through me, but now I feel real movement. Here."

His hand still clasped hers. She laid it on her belly. "Wait."

They were perfectly silent in the little parlor, hearing only the wind outside. After a moment, Tavington felt a sudden movement that could not be his wife's doing. His eyes lit with wonder and delight. There was his child—a real little person who would someday have likes and dislikes, talents and troubles. He wondered if it would be a boy or a girl, like his dear sisters. While the Tavington family needed an heir, he would welcome a daughter, too. A daughter would be always at home, taught conscientiously by Jane, and would never be banished to the mercies of a schoolmaster. It was an awful responsibility to be a father, but it would be worse to die and leave Jane alone to raise his child. He imagined her remaining in this dreadful colonial backwater with the last of the Tavingtons. At that moment, he felt perfectly certain that he must and would live to help raise his child. That certainty filled him with a sense of calm purpose. He patted Jane's belly, visualizing the child curled snugly inside.

The door opened, and Letty brought in Jane's breakfast, and removed the dirty cup and bowl. Tavington gave the pretty creature a nod of acknowledgement, smiling at her wary curtsey.

Jane said, "After breakfast, Letty, I'd like you to go to the shops to see what you can find for dinner. Take Seth with you, just in case."

"Yes, Miss Jane." She vanished through the door, and Jane sat down to her own plate of corn dodgers flavored with a few shreds of bacon. Dipped in the sweet tea they were not bad. Tavington watched her eat, interested and approving. She finished quickly, and asked, "Would you like me to read to you?"

"Actually, I'd rather have some music. I noticed that you brought your little spinet."

"I'll have to tune it first, and you might find that tiresome."

"No, indeed. I'd like to see how you do it. If you have nothing more pressing—"

"Nothing, of course. But—" She longed to call Letty in to help her, but was nervous about betraying her secret.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Only—" She cleared her throat. "I meant to call Letty in to help. I've been teaching her to play the spinet, and she needs to know how to care for one." There. It was said, and Jane awaited the coming storm.

But Tavington was not angry. "Really? How pleasant to have another musician in the household. Pray send for her at once."

Letty was called back in, and Jane had her practice with tuning fork and key. It was painstaking, delicate work, pulling the strings into harmony with one another, and Tavington's eyes drooped as they worked.

They opened when Jane sat down and played a soft and haunting air_, The Two Ravens_. He smiled idly, enjoying the moment. When she finished, he expressed his pleasure.

"Charming, my dear. And now, let us hear your pupil."

Nervously, Letty sat in her turn and played _Soldier's Joy._ It was a short and simple piece, but she played it without error and with some liveliness.

"Very nice, Letty. I thank you. And you, Madam, seem to be as a good a teacher as you are a nurse."

Somewhat flustered at the praise, Jane flashed him a quick smile, and then gave Letty money and instructions for her shopping. And then there was nothing for it, but to play her husband an impromptu concert.

-----

Letty was not sure why Seth was following her at such a respectful distance. Whenever she turned to ask him, he would grin and bow low.

"Get over here!" she hissed. "What's got into you?"

"Yore servant, Missy." He bowed again, and added in a low voice. "I bet these folks would sell to a nice young white lady 'fore they'd sell to a pair of slaves!"

"Seth, we're going to be here for months, maybe! We can't go deceiving folk here!"

"I didn't say nothin' about deceivin'. You just don't tell folk more than they need to know!"

She laughed, and let him have his way. Seth had always been a mischief-maker, thinking of ways to trick the Old Master. She had let him know from the first that she wouldn't have him use Miss Jane so, but he was so lively and full of fun it was hard to be angry with him.

It was an effective ploy. The little country store was low on supplies and high on prices, but the smiling shopkeeper helped Letty find some useful items. Within half an hour, they were on their way back to the little log house with a bushel basket of yams, a little bag containing three nutmegs, and a pot of lard. Jane welcomed them like conquering heroes.

"Sorry we couldn't get no ham or bacon neither, Miss Jane," Seth apologized. "Folks ain't partin' with what they got left in the smokehouses, and can't say as I blame them."

"I can't either, I suppose," Jane agreed. Their meat would not last long at this rate. _If only I'd brought another side of bacon, or some hams!_

But she must be thankful for what they had. The yams would be roasted, and what a feast that would make! She had put out the word that she would pay good money for eggs, and when she had some in hand she and Biddy would make an Indian pudding, flavored with the serendipitous nutmeg. Housekeeping was more interesting, she reflected, when one had to improvise and make do.

-----

Cousin Mary was her only hope of staying abreast of family news, and her hopes were answered by a letter in late February.

Her cousin was still horrified at Jane's impetuous adventure north. In addition to the usual suggestions as to how to keep warm and well ("_Only drink tea, my dear, and avoid draughts._"), she had some real news for Jane.

…_and of course you will want to know all about Selina's confinement. She was attended by old Doctor Buchanan, and is still weak, but apparently out of danger. There was some altercation after the event, I understand. Abigail Pinckney was there, and told me that Selina wanted to nurse the little one herself, but Ashbury would not have it, going on, Abigail said, in a very coarse way about her bosom being too fine for such a task. Selina was very disappointed, for she seems quite fond of the child, who, by the way, is a boy: a particularly large, strong infant. _

_She wanted to call him after her grandfather, old Judge William Pinckney, but Ashbury denied her that as well. Abigail said it was all done very smilingly, but you know how your father can be about having his own way. The child has been christened Thomas Pinckney Rutledge and is the apple of his fond father's eye. I do not care much for Selina, but I think after suffering all the pangs of childbirth, a mother should be indulged at least a little. But that is neither here nor there._

_I also spoke to Cousin Alice about Selina when I saw her in church last Sunday. Apparently, she is spending much more time with her children than formerly. They are brought to her in the afternoon for a full hour every day. She was always very flighty, I thought, and careless of other people's possessions, but perhaps she is settling down somewhat now. One forgets sometimes that she is not yet one-and-twenty. One hopes that she will handle little Thomas more carefully than she did my figurines!_

_Of course I felt it my duty to call on Selina and see the child, though that sort of visit gives me no pleasure. She received me in her bedchamber, and was doting on the infant when I arrived. She held the little creature out to me to admire, and looked at it as if it were pretty. No newborn can be so, in my opinion, but I managed some insipid compliments. The women were all hovering, trying to trace a resemblance to the parents in the child's feature. Quite ridiculous. Little Master Thomas looks like every other baby I have ever seen: pink, drooling, and hairless—rather like a wriggling worm. _

_Your little brother Ashbury the Younger was there, too. Apparently there has been some little jealousy in the nursery, but that day he behaved fairly well-- for a little boy--and proudly declared that Thomas was his! "My own little brother!" At least I am told that is what he said. The other women were cooing over him so loudly, any rational conversation was quite impossible. I know, however, dear Jane, that you are fond of your brother, and so I can assure you that he seems well and happy, and enjoys Selina's new attentions to him very much. He stood by the bed, petting her, and called her "my pitty Mamma." And then all the women cooed again. I left as soon as the quarter hour was finished, and was glad to return to the peace and sanity of my own quiet home…_

Jane sat quietly, the letter in her lap, looking at her sleeping husband. Someday she would have to tell him about the birth, but she must command her own feelings before she could do that with suitable composure. She imagined the infant: not much hair, so color could not yet be a determining factor. It was not surprising that no one could really find a resemblance to anyone in the unformed features of a newborn child. Little Thomas Rutledge was simply a healthy little boy who might be either her half-brother or stepson. Even without either claim, he was a helpless, innocent creature who deserved the care and kindness any decent woman would give any child. Jane's quarrel, such as it was, could never be with him. Reading of her father's joy at the birth, she could only give thanks, for the child's sake, that it had been a boy. It would have been too sad to see another little girl neglected. _Though perhaps Selina's daughter might have been treated quite differently, _she considered. Still, it was for the best. Jane was not convinced that Selina would be the best example for a daughter, anyway.

She grimaced, then, thinking of Selina, all the old dislike bubbling to the surface. So she was paying a little attention to the children. That was all to the good, though she wondered if she would favor Thomas over Ash in the future. There was nothing to be done. She ached for her own Little Ash, and resented Selina's new attentions to him. Ash had always been _hers._ _No longer, I suppose. If we ever get back to Charlestown, he probably won't even remember me. He'll be clinging to Selina's skirts. His "pitty Mamma," indeed!_

Angrily, she tossed the letter onto the table, wanting it out of her sight.

----- 

At least there was plenty of work to keep her occupied. She had sewing and expense before her, if her husband were to wear clothing again.

She had never before understood what defeat meant to the losing side. William had been rescued from the battlefield, but had lost everything he owned that was not on his person or near to hand. An orderly from the hospital had delivered his meager possessions, and a pitiful inventory they made.

His uniform, of course, had been destroyed. The surgeons had been forced to cut it from him when they tended his appalling wounds. All that remained to him were his boots, his watch, a purse of money, a handkerchief, his sword, and a pack of cards. None of the items was in particularly good repair. Seth had applied himself to buffing the boots, and to cleaning and sharpening the sword, which took even more work.

She wondered what had happened to everything else, but Harry Nettles explained it to her quietly in the kitchen one day, when he paid a visit and brought her a gift of game.

"The baggage train was taken by the rebels," he told her, unhappy at the memory. "We had some campfollowers with us and they were cut up pretty badly, but mostly they escaped along with us. I imagine that everything there is now feeding or clothing the opposition."

"But the Colonel had some belongings on his horse--"

"—which was killed at the battle. Everything on the horse would have been taken too."

Jane felt a pang for the poor animal, and another for the beloved telescope, his mother's gift and the means of their reconciliation. It was some rebel's trophy now, or smashed beyond repair. _What a terrible waste this war is._ _Someday I shall buy William a new one, and it shall be even more elegant._ She sighed, remembering his pleasure in his silver spoon and fork. His clothing and his books were gone, too, and his private papers and letters from his family. Impossible to replace them!

But his clothing was the first priority, and the easiest loss to remedy. Moll Royston, her invaluable laundress, took her to visit the quartermaster; and with Moll's help and advice Jane was able to obtain two shirts, some stockings, a helmet, and a pair of breeches and a waistcoat that were clean and would fit. She sorted through horsemen's cloaks for the best and least stained one available. A tailor was found who could cobble together a presentable coatee out of two old ones. The quality of the shirts was unimpressive, and so she sacrificed some of the very fine linen not yet used for her baby's clothes. Letty, the best seamstress among them, made him an exquisitely soft and comfortable garment, which would not chafe him while he was still bedridden. After that, there were neckcloths and handkerchiefs to sew. There were belts and trappings of all sorts, and Captain Bordon was a great help in choosing the correct ones.

-----

Tavington was better. He was very much better. The surgeons approved of what they called a "low" diet for men in his condition: thin gruel and broth. Biddy disagreed, and thought it was time he had a better variety. He seemed to thrive on it, and was sitting up by himself—mostly-- now. His wounds were beginning to knit, the surgeon had removed his stitches, and before long he might be out of bed. He was more talkative too, and when he had visitors did not doze off any longer. It seemed a miracle to him that Jane had come. He had no illusions about what fate would have been his without her intervention.

Not only hers, of course. It was Biddy who had known what to do for him. He had grown pleasantly accustomed to the older woman's presence, to her firm, gentle hands, and to her serene air and extraordinary knowledge of healing.

One afternoon, when Jane was busy with a pudding, he had decided to express his gratitude.

"I am very obliged to you, Biddy, for your care. There is no doubt that I owe you my life."

"It's Miss Jane you should be thanking, Colonel," she contradicted, with a smile to sweeten the reproof.

"Oh, I have, naturally. Nonetheless, had she not had you and your knowledge of practical care, she would have come only to bid me farewell. It is you who have saved me. I shall never forget that, and when we return to Charlestown, you—and your daughter—will not find me ungrateful."

Biddy only smiled, and smoothed his hair back. She knew how little this kind of gratitude really meant. When men were sick, or in love, or frightened, they were gentled and softened, and promised all sorts of rewards. Years ago, when she had shared the Master's bed, he had made his share of promises: freedom for her and their little Letty, maybe a small house of her own. Master Rutledge had forgotten her, and his promises were dust in the wind, but it did not good to complain. It was just how the world was. She fluffed Tavington's pillow, with another indulgent smile, and took him no more seriously than she would have Little Ash.

-----

Nettles stopped by again, and this time her husband had a long animated conversation with his fellow officer. Jane sat down with some sewing, trying to pay decent attention to what the two of them had to say.

"I lost poor O'Lavery," Nettles said. He downed his tea and stared at the cup in his hands without seeing it. "He and Hobbs were bringing in dispatches and were set upon. Hobbs was killed on the spot, but O'Lavery nearly made it to the fort before he fainted from loss of blood. We found him two days ago and brought him back. At least he was able to tell us what happened and deliver the dispatches—but you'll never guess where he had hidden them to keep them safe from the rebels."

"Where?"

"Stuffed them into his own wound!" Nettles shook his head in admiration. Tavington winced. Nettles took note of his distaste, and smiled slightly. "Quite awful, of course. In fact, the surgeons told me that his heroism probably killed him. He just didn't want them falling into the rebels' hands."

"A brave fellow," Tavington quietly commented.

"Damned brave, and he'll be missed. Lord Rawdon swears he'll put up a monument to him back in County Down, where O'Lavery came from." He smiled wryly. "As one Irishman to another."

The young lieutenant left soon after, and Tavington sat in silence for some time. Jane could see that he was thinking unpleasant thoughts.

Finally he burst out, "Damn these rebels to hell! I ought to be out there killing the wretches, not malingering here in bed!"

Jane took his teacup from him and raised a quizzical brow. "Hardly malingering, William. But I confess that hopes swells once more in my heart to hear you talk so. You are nearly back to you old self, if you have the strength to plot mayhem. Who would be the first you would avenge yourself upon?"

He scowled—not at her—but at the thought of his enemy. "That swine Martin."

"Benjamin Martin? Is he the one who—".

"Yes—but I'll have my revenge when next we meet. I went into battle wounded---Bordon told you that I was shot during the skirmish in which he was stabbed."

"How horrible for you both. Captain Bordon is a good friend. I hate to think of him hurt."

"I like him too. At least I killed one of Martin's sons that day."

"Which son?"

"I don't know—he has such a litter. The eldest, I believe—blonde, pretty, rather vicious—the one you mentioned in a letter. He came at me with a knife when I was down. Perhaps he meant to scalp me."

"Gabriel." She saw him, in memory, at that ball in Charlestown, He had seemed, as the heir of his father's estate, with his good looks and vitality, the happiest of creatures to her at the time. Now he was dead by her husband's hand. It was sad, really, but such were the fortunes of war. A wicked, stray thought crossed her mind. _I would be sorrier if he had ever bothered to ask me to dance._

But none of that mattered at moment: her husband's state of mind did. She sat down. "Do you wish to talk about the battle? You were already wounded—what else?"

He looked at her doubtfully, and then reassured by her interest, warmed to the opportunity. "Cornwallis rushed us north. The men were tired and hungry. He didn't get the intelligence he needed before attacking. The rebels set a trap. I saw Martin and ordered a charge. Cornwallis will say it's all my fault, but the battle was already lost. The regulars were concealed behind the militia. We were drawn in and slaughtered."

"What about you? You say you saw Martin."

"I saw him." He paused, swallowing rage. "I saw him. We fought. God, how we fought. He killed my horse, the cowardly swine."

"I heard your horse was killed under you. Such things happen in battle, I understand."

"No! I mean _he killed my horse!_ On purpose! He was holding a rebel battle flag and speared Troilus with it."

"Ugh." Jane made a small sound of disapproval and disgust. "The poor creature. What then?"

"I crashed to the ground and nearly had him, in spite of my wounds. I was on the point of taking his head when he rolled for a bayonet and stuck me with it. And then he stabbed me with another and swaggered off." He stared into the fire. "I'll kill him. I swear I'll kill him. I can never be happy while that man lives."

Jane got up to help him settle down to rest. "It's very important to have a purpose in life," she said pragmatically. "At least, that's what Miss Gilpin has always told me. I think our little chat has done you good. You look more like yourself, when you think about killing Mr. Martin."

"I feel more like myself," he agreed, and submitted to his wife's pleasant ministrations.

-----

There were too few candles to waste by sitting up late at night, there in the draughty little house. Not long after supper, Seth saw that the fire in the kitchen hearth was out before the servants took their little tapers to see them safely upstairs to bed. Jane banked and screened the fire in the parlor carefully, feeling that a little warmth was needed to keep her husband from a dangerous chill.

After her final, freezing trip to the privy behind the house, she would go to the parlor and shut the door, leaving the candle burning long enough to undress down to shift and stockings and slip into her inhospitable little cot. Every night the same thought crossed her mind: _I should have brought a warming pan._ Sometimes it was like sinking into a snowdrift, as she lay between the cold, crackling straw of the tick, and the heavy chill of the quilts. She would lie there, shivering, until she gradually grew warm enough to sleep. On the coldest nights, she kept her cloak by to add to her covers. William seemed to be warm enough, with the featherbed and a pile of blankets to protect him. He never complained, at least.

This night, she lay there, reluctant to sit up and expose her neck and shoulders to the frosty air of the parlor, even for the brief time it would take to snuff the candle. The little light made her a tiny bit warmer, even if only in her imagination.

She sighed, and then, looking beyond the candle's little flame, she saw that William was awake and smiling at her, a peaceful smile full of kind amusement.

"You're shivering:, my dear." The whisper was perfectly clear in the deep silence of the little house.

"I'll be warm in a little while," she assured him—not very convincingly—since her teeth audibly chattered.

His smile widened. "I'm rather cold myself."

Instantly, she was on her feet, looking about for another quilt to put over him.

"Jane," he objected, at the point of outright laughter. "I _meant_ that perhaps you would be warmer in my bed."

"Oh." She paused, uncertain. "I am afraid of disturbing you—hurting you even—"

"You won't disturb me. And I know you would never hurt me."

"Once I hit you on the nose."

"Are you preparing to do so tonight?"

"No, of course not."

"Then hop into bed here at once, instead of turning into a snow-woman before my eyes."

Shyly, she blew out the candle approached his bed. In the dim red glow of firelight, Tavington seemed made of burnished gold. He turned down a corner of the downy bedclothes invitingly. "In you come," he coaxed. "It will do us both good, I think."

Oh, the featherbed felt so blessedly, blessedly soft. Jane had almost forgotten how luxurious a bed could be. She cuddled against her husband's side, and gently laid her hand on his right, unwounded arm. She had almost forgotten how luxurious it was to share a bed with him. Her foot rubbed pleasantly against his leg, and the intimacy of the touch filled her with tenderness.

"And next," said her husband, with a reflective air. "I think a proper kiss goodnight would help us both settle down to sleep."

"Now I know you're on the mend."

"Perhaps so. Let us put it to the test."

She leaned over, careful of his bandaged shoulder, and pressed a long, yearning kiss to his lips. She felt him smile, and kissed him again, breaking the contact with a last light touch.

"My dear Jane." His voice was a little rough. "My dear Jane. What an accomplished woman you've become. That was possibly the nicest kiss I've ever received."

She touched his cheek. "Then sleep. If you're better tomorrow, you shall have another."

"An inducement, indeed. Sleep well, my dear."

Cozily warm, she nestled against his side, and was dreaming in less than a minute.

-----

Biddy, coming downstairs to look in on her patient before she started breakfast that morning, was surprised to find Miss Jane neither in the kitchen, nor dressed, nor in her own little bed. Looking around the parlor, she saw her foster-daughter still sound asleep, curled against her husband. She came closer and smiled at the sight of them, looking so peaceful and comfortable together. Things were better than she had ever had any reason to hope.

One of the blankets had slid off Jane's shoulder, and Biddy gently tucked it in. She left them to sleep, shutting the door silently behind her.

-----

**Notes:** The story of Corporal O'Lavery is true, and is recounted in the official history of _The 17th Light Dragoons in America._

**Next—Chapter 20: Hobkirk's Hill**


	20. Hobkirk's Hill

**Chapter 20: Hobkirk's Hill**

A parcel arrived from Mary Laurens at the beginning of March. It did not contain everything Jane had asked for, and contained instead a number of things she had not requested at all. A decorative bottle of lavender oil was hardly an essential item. Jane enjoyed it nevertheless, dabbing a little on her wrists and under the front of her bodice. Rubbing it into her hands relieved the dryness from so much unaccustomed labor. The gardening seeds Jane had requested were not sent. Cousin Mary plainly could not believe that Jane would be staying in the backcountry long enough to plant a garden.

Mary's interpretation of her shopping list was not entirely frivolous. She had secured twenty pounds of cornmeal, ten pounds of rice, ten pounds of fine wheat flour, two loaves of sugar, a bottle of laudanum, three bottles of Madeira wine, and a vital bag of salt. The parcel appeared to have been tampered with. The wrappings smelled of ham, but there was no ham in evidence. Jane silently cursed the soldiers who had undoubtedly devoured it _en route_, but could understand it. The army was starving.

Supplies were slow in coming, and the forces too dispersed for everyone to receive a fair share. The men were living off the bony wild cattle roaming loose in the fields, with no bread or vegetables to supplement their diet. Every morning, Biddy was up, and with either Jane or Letty in tow, scouring the woods for the first tender dandelion leaves to eat as a salad, or to boil as greens. She had located a rhubarb plant in the deserted garden of their little house, and when it had put out new leaves, she harvested some of the stalks, cooking them down to a mouth-twisting, sour "spring tonic" that she forced the entire household to swallow.

"You'll feel a sight worse if your gums swell up, Miss Jane," she declared, unmoved by Jane's protests that the horrid stuff could harm the baby. "And if you don't get what you need, the baby won't get it neither."

Even Tavington, now up and about their little parlor-bedchamber, dared not cross her, but drank his share of Biddy's tonic down with manful determination, then flashed Jane a wicked, superior grin as she choked down her own cupful of the tea.

Jane supposed that something so unpleasant must be medicinal, for it did seemed to do them all good. Not before time, for there were others in Camden who also were hoping for her husband's recovery.

Lord Rawdon, after his first, courteous visit to Jane, had left them somewhat to their own devices, save for the gift of the occasional delicacy to improve their comfort. With March, he began visiting more frequently: a brief weekly call at first, which gradually evolved into lengthy visits every few days, as he shared more detailed intelligence with one he treated as a valuable officer. Jane had hoped that Tavington could be persuaded to return to Charlestown to convalesce, but it seemed less and less likely with each of Lord Rawdon's visits.

Bordon, clearly, was not going to fall in with her plans. He was much improved in health, and Rawdon had taken him onto his own staff, at Tavington's recommendation. The tactful, courteous Bordon was a new man with this appointment, and his own visits were spent in deep consultation with his colonel, discussing ways to make their thin little force more effective.

Tavington himself felt new hope and strength with each spring day. His body was once more his to command. He could rise and dress, with Jane's help. He could sit at the table for meals. Most encouraging was the wonderful morning he had awakened to find his flesh once again responding appropriately to the presence of a woman in his bed. He wasted no time in alerting Jane to the fact, and a delightful encounter ensued.

"But you are too—" She blushed and protested. "You might open your wounds!"

He kissed her and guided her soft little hands. She was solicitous for his comfort: happy to discover that there were a variety of ways to look after him. She blushed more deeply two days hence, when he felt equal to teaching her to assume a superior—most superior—position. Smiling up at her, he assured her that she was not hurting him—quite the contrary—and forbore to laugh at her serious, intent face as she rode him as carefully as a girl on her first pony. In her condition, too, her belly full of his child, her caution was prudent, and, he admitted to himself, very charming.

He felt like a man once more, and gradually began to take the reins as the head of his household. He granted that the arrival of his womenfolk had undoubtedly save his life, but he could not allow Jane or Biddy to make an invalid of him. As soon as he had clothes to wear and could manage to pull on his boots, he escaped the sick room, walking a little unsteadily, but determined all the same. The kitchen beyond was an undiscovered country to him, one that he examined with wonder. Ahead of him was the door to the world outside, and he breathed the fresh, clean air with deep reverence. He had been cocooned too long.

"I want to walk out by myself, Jane. Stay here, and don't look so pained. If I'm not back in an hour or two, you may send out a search party. Until then, allow me the use of my limbs!"

To understand his new circumstances, he walked around the house, found the tumbledown stable, and met Silas and Seth. He had a little money is his purse to reward their faithful service, and enjoyed talking out-of-doors with fellow men, servants or not. He noted Silas' old fowling piece, and praised him for the success he had had in such unpromising hunting grounds. The faint sounds of a fiddle he had heard from time to time he learned had issued from his coachman's own instrument, and his value increased considerably in Tavington's eyes. Amongst them, they agreed to go fishing together on the morrow.

_Surely Jane cannot object to such mild exercise_, Tavington decided. _And even if she does, I care not_. _I feel better already for the fresh air._ He liked the menservants, and soon had the whole story of the journey from Charlestown, told in their own words. They showed him the horses: well-cared for and reasonably well nourished considering their situation, and the big carriage that had brought them all here. He thought it a rather shabby equipage, but it had held together all the way to Camden, and so was admirably well-built. And it was his. He had never before owned a vehicle of his own. This was not one that the London _ton_ would have admired, but it had served its purpose.

And might serve it again. He considered what to do with Jane. He could hardly quarrel with her for coming to his rescue, but all his earlier concerns about her were as valid as ever. The war was closing in around them. Jane was not safe here, but she would not be safe alone on the roads either, obviously. Now that she was here, here she must remain until Tavington himself could escort her home.

He could not spare the time for that. Frank Rawdon depended on him for advice. If Tavington were only a little stronger, he could return to duty in some fashion. It would be folly to try to ride alone to rejoin the Green Dragoons, but Rawdon could surely find suitable duties for him here. No matter what crack-brained ideas Cornwallis had, the war was far from over in South Carolina.

Within twenty minutes, he admitted to himself that he was tired. He would not admit it to anyone else. Taking his time, he strolled back to the house, chatting with the servants. Silas was a decent old man, and Seth a likely young fellow, amusing and undaunted by hardship. Briefly, he considered training him as a valet. Seth was clever enough, certainly, but might not take to such tasks. He was too energetic and vital to be trapped indoors, brushing coats and arranging hair. Had he not been a slave, Tavington would have thought him just the sort to go for a soldier, and do well in the ranks. Better to leave him as groom and footman for now.

Perhaps he was not quite up to the effort today, but soon he would pay a visit to the quartermaster himself. He needed a horse if he was to get about and make the kind of assessments Rawdon seemed to want of him. He would get a mount for Bordon as well. The rebels would soon regret that Tavington was back in the game.

-----

William had a very good appetite that night. It pleased Jane to see him sitting at the table with her, wolfing down the stringy squirrel stew and cornbread as if it were good. It really was not, but it was hot and it was food. Jane chewed diligently on the shreds of gamy meat, but had to quietly discard some inedible bits to the side of her plate. Her husband frowned when he noticed it.

"You need to eat everything before you."

"You're as bad as Biddy."

"I'm a great deal worse than Biddy, as you'll find, my dear, if this goes on." He managed a wry laugh. "I'll wager that you never scorn a fine dinner in Charlestown again!"

She gave a grudging nod, and applied herself to her stew. She had helped make it, and it pleased her that William was being nourished by her own cooking.

Tavington, on the other hand, while he was grateful for his wife's efforts, was hoping that his mother never heard about his wife's essays into domestic cookery. It was acceptable for a lady to amuse herself with puddings and cakes and various sweets, but Mamma had not allowed his sisters to pursue even that degree of housewifery. Serious kitchen work was not genteel, and not the proper provenance of his wife. It might be necessary in their current circumstances, and Jane was admirable in her courage and adaptability, but Mamma would never understand it. No one could, who had not lived through this war. He would choose a good moment, when they were back in a civilized place, and warn Jane against indiscreet disclosures. It was not what she deserved, but the world was the way it was, and people who knew only the safety and comfort of London would have reason enough to snipe at Jane. There was no need for her to give them more ammunition.

Perhaps if she had been the daughter of an earl, like Mamma, she might have been able to carry it off--as a caprice, an amusing adventure, even. Jane's social position, as the daughter of a colonial planter and the wife of the younger son of a libertine and bankrupt, would be far more precarioius. She had neither the looks nor the native charm to conquer society. She would need to be extremely careful, and do nothing to draw attention to her origins. _If only she can do something about that accent…_

-----

General Greene and his Continentals had returned to South Carolina. Tavington had predicted this, but Cornwallis had been too entranced with his plan of attacking the Virginians to heed the consequences of his departure. Rawdon had agreed with Tavington, but nothing he had said had changed the Lord General's mind. Greene was back, and on the march. The tiny force left behind to hold South Carolina for the King would be fighting alone.

Bordon had a few of their loyal Cherokee scouts following the enemies' movements. Their strategy was clear: to dismantle the British defenses fort by fort. Fort Watson to the south was already threatened. If that fell, Camden would be isolated.

Tavington was becoming fairly alarmed for Jane and the servants. The house was within the outer fortifications, but in a pitched battle it would be an artillery target. If worst came to the worst, the best choice would be to send her to the tall white house that had been headquarters first for Cornwallis, and then for Rawdon. It was somewhat better defended, but was still in harm's way. He said little about it, for there was no point in unnecessarily frightening the women.

The signs were clear, though. A stream of Loyal people trickled steadily into Camden, just ahead of the rebel advance. Their stories were all the same: Sumter was heading west against Fort Ninety-Six; Harry Lee had been brought in to support Benjamin Martin in the move against Fort Watson. The bulk of Greene's forces had crossed the border just after the beginning of April, and were headed straight to Camden.

Tavington walked over to headquarters, as he now did every day. Rawdon saw him through a window, and leaned out to call to him.

"Good day to you, Tavington! You're not before time. Come in and have a chat with me."

Once in the parlor, he was shown to a seat, and watched Rawdon pace restlessly. Francis, Lord Rawdon was a lanky young man, nearly ten years Tavington's junior. Aristocrats in command meant a wide range of ability, sometimes with disastrous results. Rawdon, however, had some real military talent, and one especial virtue: he was not given to self-deception or wishful thinking. Their position was dire, and he knew it, and he was working hard to salvage the situation.

"Have a brandy. How are you feeling?"

There was a new, anxious edge to the question. Tavington sensed an opportunity, and was determined to make what he could of it.

"I'm very much better, my lord."

"That wife of yours brought you back from the dead, the surgeon says. You're a lucky man."

"I well know it." He watched Rawdon pace, perfectly still himself.

"Look here, Tavington. Can you really sit a horse now? If you can, I'm prepared to make you my cavalry commander. It's not much of a force, but it's something, and I need all the help I can get at the moment."

"I would be honored, my lord."

"Paugh! It's not a ceremonial post. I need you out and about. You've more experience than anyone else patrolling this part of the colony. I can give you a few men recovered enough for duty from your Greens and from Tarleton's Legion. You'll have the 17th Light, and two of our Indian scouts as well. I need eyes out there. Don't concern yourself with raiding or retribution. Just get out there and let me know what going on---here." He pointed to the map of South Carolina, and drew a circle around Camden. "Within a ten mile radius, preferably, though I'll settle for five. Don't go haring after will-o-the-wisps, though. And if you run into any large forces, don't engage them, but make a dash for us. I can't afford to lose you."

Tavington studied the map. "I understand."

"From what I hear, the rebels outnumber us two to one. Between ourselves, the Lord General has put the whole campaign in peril with his 'grand strategy.' Whoever heard of advancing without securing one's lines of supply and communication? I haven't received a dispatch from him in over a month, except second-hand by way of the ships from Wilmington to Charlestown. If we lose Fort Watson, we won't even get that."

"Have you considered letting me go to relieve Watson?"

"I have, and I can't spare you. Oh, the rebels damn well have us now, Tavington. We're spread too thin, and that's the truth."

"I'll need a horse. Two would be better."

"You'll have them. Right now we've lost so many men that there are some spares, for a change. No Derby winners among them, mind you, but we'll have to take what we can get."

"I'll want Bordon, too."

"By all means. He's a useful fellow, that captain of yours. The Cherokees trust him, Wish I knew how he managed _that."_

Tavington smiled faintly. "It's a long story, my lord." It was: a very long story involving a botched attempt at trade, a close shave with Death, a hour or two of intense suffering, and Bordon's excellent impersonation of a man of the cloth.

"Then I'll want to hear it someday from his own lips, but not today. Something to look forward to, as it were. We all need that."

-----

Tavington found himself at the head of a rag-tag excuse for a cavalry troop. Nettles had only thirty-five effectives left. Eleven Green Dragoons were recovered enough from their wounds to join them. In addition, he had seven dragoons from the British Legion, and twelve men from the Legion infantry who could ride. With Tavington himself and Bordon, altogether His Majesty's cavalry in South Carolina totaled the mighty number of sixty-eight men. Nettles was detailed to watch the southern half of their protective circle, and Tavington led his patchwork force to sweep along the north, looking for Greene's army, the greatest danger to them at the moment.

"I can't believe you're going!" Jane cried, when she heard the news. Her husband gave her a look that clearly expressed his dislike of a scene, so she bit off the rest of her remarks until they could be alone. He was gone for most of a day, and then, to her resentment, sent word that he would be dining with his men. She could hardly forgive him. It might be their last dinner together—ever--and he was spending it elsewhere. She was still sulking when he arrived that night at the little house, anxious to get some rest before setting out.

"You should make someone else do this," she complained, as he undressed for bed. "You're not well enough yet."

"Jane, I don't want to hear another word about it. Lord Rawdon has entrusted me with this mission, and I'm the best man for it. Are you pouting? It does not become you. I must spend time with the men. Many have never served under me before, and I must teach them quickly to trust me."

She sat straight up, scowling, and then impulsively threw a pillow at him. "I don't want you to go. You'll get hurt again, and all our work will have been for nothing!"

Tavington caught the pillow, grimaced, and headed to the bed with a determined stride. "Aren't you full of fight this evening?"

She peered at him, a little nervous. He was perfectly naked, unashamed of his scars, and was looking at her—oh, _that_ way! "What are you going to do?"

"Bid you a long and fond farewell, my dear. I may not see you for days." Within a second he was pulling the quilt and sheet aside, and was down beside her in bed, catching her up in his arms. He smiled at her alarmed, wide eyes, and then pulled her close for a kiss.

"Off," he ordered, with a nod at her nightdress. Trembling with excitement, she pulled it over her head, turning it inside out in her haste. Tavington snatched it from her and tossed it across the room, and then pushed her back onto the bed.

He lay beside her, stroking her round and pregnant belly with a gentle hand. "I think your figure much improved by your condition." His hand found a breast and fondled it, tracing the arc from the underside, up to the nipple with a light pinch, and then trailing his fingertip to the other. "Much improved. Motherhood becomes you, Jane." He leaned over her and gave the pink tip a light nip. "Unlike pouting."

"I'm very afraid for you," she whispered, hoping he did not stop this pleasant play.

He did not, letting his hand stray lower, stroking her expertly. "Fear profits a man nothing." He caught her hand in his, showing her where he wanted her to touch him. "Yes, very nice, my dear. Much better than pouting."

-----

Jane, though he would not admit it to her, was right: he was not fully recovered. One full day in the saddle made it achingly plain that neither his shoulder wound, nor the torn flesh of his side were perfectly sound. Tavington gritted his teeth, and tried to ignore the discomfort. He could manage his horse and wield a sword and that was what he must do now. Greene was closer by the day, and Nettles had passed on the intelligence that Fort Watson to the south was besieged.

Tavington stood up in the stirrups looking south toward Camden. Rawdon's fortifications gave him a certain reassurance, but no stout log walls would protect the Camden garrison from starvation. His little patrols circled Camden protectively, alert for a sign of the approaching Rebel army.

Finally, on April twentieth, a pair of troopers rode at a full-out gallop down the Great Road, waving at Tavington.

"It's the Continentals for sure, Colonel. The 2nd Virginia, I think, and maybe the Maryland regiments. It's no militia band."

Tavington blew out a breath, resigned to whatever might come. "All right. Tell me everything you saw," he said, pulling paper and pencil from his waistcoat pocket, ignoring the twinge in his side. "Lord Rawdon needs to know about this. I want you to report to him personally." When this was done, he called Bordon to him. "Throw out a shallow cavalry screen between here and Camden, and we'll try to catch any Rebel scouts creeping up on us."

He kept a wary eye on the troop movements throughout the day. Greene, he gradually understood, was establishing a base on Hobkirk's Hill, a low sandy ridge a mile and a half north of Camden. Tavington had patrolled the area for weeks and now knew it intimately.

Woods and low marshy terrain flanked the hill on both sides. To the east, Pine Tree Creek flowed through an impassable swamp. Between the ride and Camden lay forest and thick underbrush. Tavington felt something could be made of this: the Rebels might outnumber them, but the terrain would make it impossible for them to deploy a wide front and utilize all their troops at once.

Rawdon rode out himself to reconnoitre. Tavington had sent out their Indian scouts to gather what information they could. It would be a miracle if they could survive this.

"We cannot wait here for Greene to attack, my lord," Tavington remarked. "Once he comes down from the hill and penetrates the woods, he'll be able to surround us."

Calmly, Francis Lord Rawdon contemplated his options. "I have no intention of waiting for him."

"You mean, take the battle to _them_?"

"What choice do we have?"

But they must have more men. Rawdon's next order was a grim one, Tavington accepted without argument, knowing it must be so. Besides, he needed to see Jane.

He passed through the gates of the fort and was greeted by a party of women. Some were resigned, others frightened, voices high and shrill as startled sparrows. Nan Haskins was there, her pretty face anxious. He had not seen her in months, and had nearly forgotten the pleasure of her company. With a rush of guilt, he felt for her danger, but he could not protect her. He would be lucky if he could protect his own wife.

Moll Royston was her usual cheerful self. She raised her old musket by way of salute. "I reckon things are heating up a mite, Colonel?"

"So it would seem. Moll, I want all you women inside the inner works. There's some shelter in the outbuildings at headquarters. Stay there until you're told differently."

"Well, I don't know about that, Colonel," Moll objected. "Seems to me I could do more good up on the walls with my gun. Leastways, I could do some reloading for the boys if it came down to it."

Tavington considered her offer quite seriously for an instant, and then had an idea that pleased him better.

"No, I want you at headquarters, Moll. Mrs. Tavington will be joining you. You must stay by her side at all hazards. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, sir! I won't let you down!" Grinning, she herded the rest of the women before her, headed toward the tall white Kershaw House.

Tavington felt curiously relieved. He could not spare a man to guard Jane, but Moll was bigger, tougher, and more reliable than many men in camp. He had done the best he could. He turned his mount's head toward the little house to the south.

Jane saw him coming their way at a canter. Running out of the house to greet him, her smile died when she saw the look on his face.

"You are moving to headquarters," he declared without preamble.

"The rebels are coming?" She tried to sound brave, but her voice sounded thin in her own ears.

"The rebels are here. I want you in the safest place. Moll Royston will meet you there. Stay close to her. Don't bother to pack up everything: if the rebels get through it won't matter. Just get a few clothes and all the food. Silas!" He shouted.

Seth came running out of the stable, wide-eyed. His old father was slower. Both men looked prepared for the worst. Tavington said, in his crispest way, "You are all moving to headquarters, within the inner works. Load the coach and harness the horses. They're more valuable than anything else, and we won't be able to replace them if they're killed or stolen."

Jane looked very small and alone. He must say something else. He dismounted quickly, and strode over to her. Taking the thin shoulders in his hands, he bent and gave her a quick kiss.

"Be brave, my dear. One way or another, it will soon be over."

He still had Rawdon's desperate order to undertake. He rode to the field hospital, and rounded up every man who could walk. Willing or unwilling, these men prepared themselves to hobble out to battle. Rawdon planned to use them as a mobile reserve, attached to his own beloved Loyalist regiment, the Volunteers of Ireland.

Quietly, the British forces advanced out of the fort in a very narrow formation. If they moved through the woods, they might be able to surprise the rebels. It was a slim hope, but it was their only one.

Rawdon did not permit the men any fires. They were to stay quiet and invisible until the time came. Tavington was too restless to sleep: he envied Bordon, who lay in serene slumber under an oak, wrapped in his horseman's cloak. Instead, he paced along the line, inspecting the sentries. It would mean disaster, if Greene surprised them instead.

There was a rustle and a muffled shout.

"Get him!"

"Don't shoot! I'm on your side!"

"Shut him up! You, come along quiet or I'll slit your gullet!"

Tavington waited, while a squad of his men dragged a stranger behind them through the underbrush. It was nearly pitch dark: he could see almost nothing. The noise put him on edge, and he went forward, with a few muttered words to his men. The stranger, a shapeless bulk in a uniform of some sort, was flung down before him.

"Who are you," Tavington snarled, "and what are you doing creeping about in the dark?"

"Name's McPherson, sir. Used to be British Legion, but I was captured at the Cowpens, and it was march with the Continentals or prison. I've been trying to get away ever since."

"So you say," Tavington hissed softly. "What news do you bring us to prove your story?"

A glint of white betrayed the man's grin. "About the best news in the world, sir. Greene's withdrawn his artillery. He's split his forces along the east and west sides of the ridge and supplies are low. You all got anything to eat?"

"You'll eat when we know you're telling the truth." He growled to the waiting men. "Tie him up at the back of the lines and one of you keep an eye on him. If he's lying, I'll kill him later." He leaned over the informant, and breathed softly. "I am Colonel William Tavington of the Green Dragoons. Just so you realize that I'm not a man to make idle threats."

"Not worried, Colonel. You'll see I'm right."

Tavington notified Rawdon about the intelligence, and the commander interviewed the man himself, gleaning every detail of the enemy's deployments. After some thought, he said to Tavington. "That's it, then. We'll attack before dawn. They'll never be weaker, and we'll never have a better chance."

Their little army had a pair of six-pounders. Wheels muffled with rags, they were dragged into position as Rawdon arrayed his troops. Softly, softly, they felt their way through the woods. Tavington thought briefly of _Macbeth_, and Malcolm's army disguised by branches. _"'Til Birnham Wood come to Dunsinane…" _He had ordered the horse's hooves muffled like the cannons' wheels, and when the first skirmishers opened fire on the rebels, he was sure they had achieved a complete surprise. The spring sun rose on a battle in full fury.

Tavington was with the dragoons on Rawdon's left, along with a mass of Loyalist militia sharpshooters armed with rifles. Within half an hour, he could see clearly that Greene was trying to extend his front to envelop them from either side. He ordered the dragoons to dismount and open fire on the advancing flank. A trooper was sent to tell Rawdon what was happening.

The response was immediate. Their own forces were extended to the limits of hedge and swamp, preventing the rebel's attempt to turn their flanks. Tavington reloaded his pistol again and again. It would be a hard slog up Hobkirk's Hill, and the stubbornest side would win.

There was a shout, and a great push from the center of their lines. Something had happened: the rebels were suddenly in retreat. A courier gave a shout and wave.

"Colonel Tavington! His Lordship says to mount up and head to the rear. Washington's Dragoons have slipped around behind us!"

"To horse!" Tavington bellowed. He left the sharpshooters to deal with the remains of the rebel flank and threw himself into his saddle, looking for George Washington's equally vexing cousin.

With their infantry in collapse, the rebel dragoons did not linger long. At the sight of the Tavington's cavalry bearing down on them, they spurred away, in haste to protect their own retreat. Hardly a sword crossed, before Tavington was calling the men back in. A few grumbled, their blood up for the chase, but in the end they loped back like well-trained hunting dogs.

Rawdon sent some scouts after the retreating enemy, but it appeared that they had withdrawn several miles, mauled by Rawdon's unexpectedly aggressive resistance.

"But we have wounds to lick as well," Rawdon remarked, wiping the sweat from his face with a tattered, lace-trimmed handkerchief. "A host of wounded, and more injuries for some still convalescing. Not many killed though."

"A victory is always worth celebrating, my lord," said Tavington with a smile.

"A victory," Rawdon replied, considering. "Yes, well, we certainly won the day, but I wonder in the future, when the history of this rebellion is written, if it won't be said that the British Army won the battles while losing the war."

-----

**Next—Chapter 21: A Weary Road Home**


	21. A Weary Road Home

**Chapter 21: A Weary Road Home**

While they were still celebrating their victory, word came that Fort Watson to the south had fallen. Tavington knew all too well what that would mean, and Rawdon confirmed it a few days later.

"We're doomed if we stay in Camden." The lanky Irishman shook his head. "Our position here is hopeless. We'll have to pull back towards Charlestown, and leave Camden for the rebels."

Tavington could only agree. The elaborate fortifications, begun with such care by Cornwallis, and completed so efficiently by Rawdon, were destroyed. If the British were able to return one day, it would be foolish to give the rebels an intact fortress to hold. It was a melancholy business, but one that was completed quickly. Seth, with commendable energy, volunteered to help, and returned from his labors each day muddy and hungry.

Tavington had warned Jane that this was coming, as soon as he returned from the battle.

"There's no help for it, Jane," he confided in her, rather bitterly. "Cornwallis was insanely reckless to strip the colony of the army and go lolloping north, chasing the rebels. Any fool could have predicted that the minute the army was gone, the rebel militias would come crawling out from under their rocks. And the continentals too, are bound to wheel around Cornwallis and attack us. The man cannot simply hold on to what he has—he cannot bear to feel besieged. It will be the ruin of him—and us as well, I fear. You may as well start packing now."

And so she had. Or rather, she had told Biddy and Letty to pack. They busily set to work, and used up the more perishable foodstuffs by baking tarts and cakes that would keep longer. The two scrawny chickens they managed to acquire were promptly roasted. Everything was carefully wrapped and stored to keep it from vermin, for finding provisions on the journey would likely be impossible; and cooking would be limited to what could be managed over an open campfire.

Jane felt rather sad to bid farewell to her little ramshackle house—her first home as a married woman. Crude as it was, she had had many happy moments here. She was feeling rather ill—partly from the terror she had felt at the sounds of distant battle, but mostly because she was grotesquely swollen in the last months of her confinement. The strange sensation of no longer being in command of her own body never left her. The child was very active: it was disturbingly manifest that there was another _person_ inside her: a person who kicked, turned around alarmingly suddenly, poked at his surroundings with provoking strength. It seemed to her that this new little person was constantly looking for a way out. Now, on the tenth of May, Jane found herself not resting and settling in for her child's birth, but undertaking a dangerous new journey.

Biddy said the child was due around the middle of June, but warned Jane that "babies make their own time." It was very worrying. Jane felt the danger of the imminent childbirth, and wished this were something that could be delegated to one of her slaves, like other tasks laborious or unpleasant. However, she must brave it herself, and hope for the best. The journey would take almost two weeks, unless heavy rains spoiled the roads. If Lord Rawdon felt it necessary to take the troops further into the interior to fight the rebels, it might take considerably more. With luck and good weather, she hoped would be home in Charlestown before the child "made his own time."

"If only we could have stayed a few months more!" Jane lamented, climbing clumsily into the big carriage. Silas and Biddy, between them, helped her in, and Jane settled her uncomfortable, heavily pregnant body into the seat.

Letty gave Jane a brief smile, as she and Biddy seated herself opposite her. Jane smiled back, trying to pretend she felt better than she did.

Her servants looked at her somewhat solicitously, but Jane murmured, "I'm quite all right. I just want this journey to be over." She shut her eyes, trying to compose herself with restful thoughts. The sound of galloping hooves and her husband's voice, raised in command, made her open them again. She leaned out the window, and saw William with Bordon and some of his dragoons. He had come to see that she was safe, and to escort her to her place in the grim parade as the British army departed.

"You are well, Madam?" he asked, in the formal way he affected in front of servants and his soldiers.

"Very well, sir," she replied, responding in the same style, "and once again congratulating myself on the purchase of this sturdy, capacious carriage."

He smiled: a reserved but approving smile. "I've detailed Pevney and Royce to remain with you at all times. Do not, under any circumstances, pull out of line or stop the coach save at a general halt." He looked up at Silas, perched on the coachman's box. "Is that clearly understood?"

"Yes, sir, Colonel," Silas answered quickly.

"Good." His crisp manner softened somewhat, and he reached out to take Jane's hand. "I shall see you later in the day, Madam. May your share in the journey today be agreeable." He gave her hand a squeeze, and then nodded kindly to Biddy and Letty. "A safe journey to you as well."

Bordon greeted Jane in his usual pleasant manner. "Mrs. Tavington."

"Captain, good day to you," Jane replied with a smile, and added, "Look after my husband, if you please."

Bordon was amused. "If he'll permit me!"

Tavington snorted a laugh, and was off then, surrounded by men and horses. The dragoons he had assigned as guards took their places just behind and to either side of the coach. Silas cracked his whip and they jolted into motion.

It was perfectly awful. Had she been her usual self, it would have been a tedious and somewhat strenuous leg of a long trip. In her present condition, she was miserable. She felt hot, the coach seemed unbearable stuffy, she could not read or sew without feeling nauseous, and she needed to relieve herself constantly.

Biddy has foreseen this, and had put their prized chamberpot in the coach. At every halt, Letty took it out to empty it and rinse it.

Jane was mortified to find herself having to use it, there in front of her companions, at least once an hour; but Biddy covered the pot, and patted her kindly. "You're doing just fine, Miss Jane. This is natural. Don't you be ashamed."

Letty remarked, "It's a blessing this carriage has curtains."

"I just wish it were over," Jane groaned, trying to find a comfortable position.

Letty smiled at her, and Biddy observed, "Not too soon, though, honey."

"I suppose not."

And thus the day passed. Jane had never known a longer one. They forded shallow streams, they ferried over a river. Each stage was painstaking. In the afternoon, Jane rested her aching head on her dear old nurse's well-padded shoulder. Every bump echoed off the top of her skull. The decent food her faithful friends had had the foresight to pack would give them wholesome meals for the next few days, but soon they would be eating the same horrid rations as the rest of the army. Jane, nibbling hungrily on a chicken leg, did not look forward to it.

The chicken must be eaten right away. The tarts they had baked would keep a little longer, the bread and molasses and cake longest of all. Arranging menus in her head helped pass the time. She saw nothing of William until they halted for the evening and he joined them for their picnic supper. Jane rested in the coach while the soldiers made a town of canvas appear as if by magic.

-----

Tavington conferred with Rawdon for the last time that day, and joined his womenfolk with the twilight. Jane, he was proud to note, did not complain, but it was clear that the day had been hard on her. She looked far from her best, pale and perspiring, with an unhappy, strained expression. Her hair was rumpled, and Letty was fanning her, even with the cool evening breeze coming on.

She saw his concerned look and forced a little laugh. "There's one day done."

To encourage her, he smiled back. Biddy laid out a meal on the table in the large tent where the women would sleep. One roasted chicken and part of another, a rhubarb tart made the day before, some wheaten biscuits just starting to crumble, and some good Madeira wine to drink, which Jane took well-watered.

He had had far worse food on the march in his time. And worse companions, too. The servants, as always, were soft-spoken and hard-working; and very kind to their mistress. Biddy was a tower of strength, and Letty everything a kind sister ought to be. _A pity,_ he thought, _she was not acknowledged as such._ Jane was tired, but stayed up until full dark, reading aloud some of her favorite bits from _The Spectator,_ and laughing over them. He studied her thoughtfully in the lantern light. She was as plain as ever, he supposed, but he realized that it had ceased to matter to him. Jane's face was no longer the uninteresting face of a plain woman, but the expressive face of his wife. He was certainly not in love with her, of course: she was simply now a not unpleasant part of his life.

At length it was time to put her to bed. He gravely kissed his wife's hand, said goodnight to Biddy and Letty, and took himself away to his own command tent; of equal size, but far more spacious, since it was furnished with only his own single cot, his trunk, and a folding desk and chair. He smiled a little, listening to the women helping Jane into the low and narrow army cot. After some whispers and some alarming creaks and groans, he heard her sigh with relief.

"Well," she said. "I have now laid myself down to sleep, but how I'm ever to rise in the morning is beyond me."

"Don't worry, honey," Biddy assured her, "We're all strong enough among us to haul you up. And if need be, we'll go get the Colonel."

Jane was laughing. "He'd certainly enjoy that!"

Tavington smiled to himself, and spoke through the wall of his tent to her. "It would be my honor, Madam. And a pleasant good night to you."

"And to you, sir."

-----

The next day, unfortunately, was hotter. Jane was eased from her cot, helped into her clothes, scolded into eating a little breakfast, and pushed and pulled into the security of the coach. She gave Tavington a brave little smile as he rode off, but he was sorry that she must bear such a day as lay before her. He spared some of the compassion for himself too. He did not feel particular well. The long ride yesterday had awakened some aches and pains that he had thought behind him. His left shoulder in particular bothered him. It was just too bad. Rawdon had been very generous to him, and he could hardly cry off now because of old wounds.

They were a large enough force to have no fears of a direct assault, but Tavington had scouts out in all directions, and from their reports, it was clear that the rebel irregulars were watching them closely, looking for stragglers to pounce upon. Rawdon listened to Tavington's advice with respect, and the necessity of keep good order was made clear to all his officers. If they stayed together, they should be safe.

To Tavington's great pleasure, Lord Rawdon invited them to dine that night, gallantly solicitous for Mrs. Tavington's comfort. In ordinary circumstances, Jane would have been in her confinement, and not dining out at all. These, however, these were not ordinary circumstances; and Rawdon, feeling for the difficulties of a lady traveling in her advanced state of pregnancy, wished to coddle her a little with the few delicacies he still had in his personal baggage. While they might seem even more delicious in a day or two, Rawdon realized that Mrs. Tavington might be feeling worse with the journey, and thus, if he wished to invite her, he should do so now.

"Peaches in brandy!" cried Jane. "How delightful! And how well they complement the ham. My lord, you spoil me."

"A great pleasure, I assure you, Madam. Very obliging of Tavington to provide us with a lady to pay our compliments to." He carved conscientiously, cutting slices delicately thin to tempt a lady's appetite. It was a merry meal, and Jane felt slightly tipsy between the watered wine and the brandy in the peaches.

There was a great bowl of tender golden rice, as well. Jane grew thoughtful over it, remembering her father and Cedar Hill.

_Will I be returning there? Will William force me to live with Selina and her child? Surely I have deserved better of him that that!_

Tavington saw her frown, and wondered if she was feeling unwell. Soon, he declared it was time to "see her home," much to the amusement of Rawdon and the officers. Jane remembered to smile, not wishing to ruin the pleasant mood of the evening, and took her husband's proffered arm, walking back slowly to her tent.

"Are you ill?" he asked, a little anxious.

"No, I'm well enough." The thoughts, the memories preyed on her. She would not be able to sleep until this matter was resolved between them. She took courage.

"William—"

"Yes, Jane?"

"When we return to Charlestown, you will still, I trust, be working closely with Lord Rawdon."

"Of course."

"Will it not be convenient, then, to reside close to headquarters?"

Tavington gave a faint snort. That was the trouble, then. Easy enough to put her mind at rest. "Yes. I do not intend to presume further upon your father's hospitality. A billet somewhere else in the city will be found."

"And will I---I mean, I will be with you, won't I? You won't make me live with Papa?"

He stopped, and tried to see her face in the darkness. She seemed very dejected. Tavington felt a faint flutter of guilt. It had been unkind of him, leaving her with her bullying father and jealous stepmother for all those months. Now that things were better between them, it was time to make a fresh start.

"My dear Jane--of course you shall live with me. I daresay you have some possessions in your father's house that you will wish to retrieve. We shall call on them, naturally." He gave her shoulders a bracing squeeze. "But I'm sure we can find a snug billet for our household within shouting distance of Rawdon and the rest of the Myrmidons."

She rewarded him with a shy kiss on the cheek. "I'm so glad."

-----

Benjamin Martin and his men had been moving parallel to the British column since it left Camden. To the west, they tracked the enemy warily, waiting for an opportunity of any sort. Lord Rawdon was a talented commander, and a decent man, for a British officer, but Martin knew who was on the march with Rawdon, and he could not miss any opportunity to destroy William Tavington.

The Butcher had somehow survived his wounds at Cowpens—wounds that would have killed a normal human being. _If the good die young, then Tavington must be immortal,_ he thought grimly. He had sources inside the British camp. Tavington had a wife, it seemed, who had come to Camden to nurse him—a daughter of that trimmer, that Mr. Facing-all-ways, Ashbury Rutledge.

Martin knew Rutledge, of course, but could not for the life of him remember the daughter. Charlotte had told him that she was "a plain piece of goods" with a large fortune. It explained Tavington, but did not explain the girl.

_She might have been forced to marry Tavington as a peace offering from her father to the British. _What better way to convince them of his loyalty? If that were the case, Martin felt a little pity for the unattractive Miss Rutledge. Martin knew Tavington well enough to imagine how he would treat an innocent and defenseless young woman.

On the other hand, she had come out to nurse the bastard, accompanied only by a few servants. That did not speak well for her. Martin had caught a glimpse, now and then, of the huge coach that was said to be Tavington's, the one carrying his wife. It looked damned expensive, that ostentatious, luxurious carriage, trundling unscathed over the rough roads of the backcountry.

Another thing troubled him. His spy had told him that the woman was carrying Tavington's child. Martin felt slightly ill at the thought of any spawn of his enemy, and then remembered his beloved sons, killed by that monster. It would be revenge, indeed---

But perhaps not. He did not credit Tavington with ordinary human emotions, and it was probable that Tavington would not feel for his child what Martin felt for his own. He might not even care if his rich wife were to be in danger. He might feel the insult, he might be indignant as at the theft of a possession, but nothing more.

And Martin, whatever his own grievances, did not like to think of himself as the sort of man who would harm a woman—even an enemy woman—and especially one carrying a child. However, as a prisoner—a well-treated prisoner—she would have a certain value. At the very least, her capture would embarrass Tavington, and show him to be a man incapable of protecting his own family. But that thought, taken to its logical conclusion, soon became too painful for Martin to bear.

-----

The fifth day was the worst of all for Jane. In the morning, the struggle to escape the cot was more awkward than ever. She was aware of a general unpleasant feeling, and a dull cramping in her belly. It was useless to whine, and she hated to be such a bother to everyone, so she said nothing. She drank some tea when Letty brought her a cup, and crumbled away a piece of cornbread, hoping that no one would notice how little she ate of it.

Nothing escaped Biddy, unfortunately, who sat down by her, and wheedled some more breakfast into her before they left.

It was a cloudless day. The sunlight from the earliest morning blazed with a terrible, unnatural brightness. They opened all the windows of the coach, preferring the dust to the airless humidity otherwise. In the mid-morning, as they descended toward the Santee River, Jane's cramps grew worse.

They were very unpleasant indeed. Jane had not missed the usual discomfort of her monthly courses, thinking that the one blessing of pregnancy. Now they were back with a vengeance. She curled up in a corner of the carriage, resting her hands over her belly, not speaking, and pretending to sleep so no one would speak to her. Slowly, the column threaded its way on the paths through the swamps.

A halt was ordered, not any too soon to suit her. She used the chamberpot, inured to the embarrassment, and Letty took it to be emptied. The other servants left the coach to stretch and to find some shred of privacy for themselves.

"Come on now, Miss Jane," urged Biddy. "I think it would do you good to get out of the carriage. You need some fresh air."

"No, really, Biddy. I had rather rest. Don't worry about me."

She shut her eyes, and sat quietly for a few minutes, listening to the flies buzzing in the still, sweltering air. She was therefore the more startled when her companions rushed back to the carriage, shut the door and the curtains; and Biddy began an anxious interrogation.

"Are you hurting, honey? There was blood in the pot."

"Was there? It's nothing—just some cramping. I'll just sit quietly and try to wait it out. You know the trouble I've always had—"

"This ain't the same at all! It could be the baby coming."

"No!" Jane protested. "It's too soon!"

"Babies make their own time, honey." Biddy reminded her, and then began a series of pointed questions that seemed all too acute for Jane.

Letty gave her some of the morning's tea from their covered jug. It was now gone lukewarm, but Jane preferred it to anything hot at the moment. Letty slipped out of the coach, and Jane heard her telling Seth to open one of the trunks. She climbed back in with hands full of some linen bandages, and neatly arranged them under Jane to spare her clothing any more bloodstains.

Biddy did not want Jane to lie down just yet. "Ladies are always lying down as soon as they feel bad. It'll make the baby come quicker, honey, if you sit up as long as you can. We can get the featherbed down if we need it, but you try to sit up. I'll sit with you and you can put your head down on me again. Do you want me to send a message to the Colonel?"

Jane groaned. "No—oh, no! It may be nothing. If I really am about to give birth, yes, I suppose he should know, but please don't bother him until we're all sure." The thought of Tavington filled her with resentment. There he was, prancing about on his horse, as well and healthy and elegantly _slim_ as ever—while she was suffering, and grossly great with child—his child. She had forgiven the circumstances their first intimacies before, but now she brooded over them. Tavington was a brute—an unfeeling brute. He was happy and she was miserable. Everything was entirely and utterly and _completely_ his fault.

The cramps lengthened: became more intense. She tried not to be a baby herself, but a faint moan finally escaped her.

Biddy felt Jane's belly, her face serious. "Sit forward a little, Miss Jane, and pull up your petticoats. I need to have a look."

Jane flinched a little at the examination, wondering what Biddy was doing. The older woman rose from her knees and said, "You're having this baby today for sure, honey."

Jane sighed out a miserable breath. Letty put a comforting arm around her.

At length, the jolting and bumping became too much.

"I'm going to be sick," Jane groaned, clutching at the edge of the seat, clenching her teeth.

"Hold on just a little," Biddy soothed her. She leaned out of the window and called up to Seth. "We got to stop, Seth. The baby's coming soon, and Miss Jane's got to have some quiet."

"The Colonel won't like it."

"The Colonel won't like it if something goes wrong. We got to stop and get the featherbed down."

Royce was riding closest, and overheard. He was a family man himself, and knew something about the days when a child made its appearance.

"Are you certain sure, Biddy? The Colonel'll have our hides if you're wrong."

"I ain't wrong about babies coming. We got to stop."

Pevney trotted up, concerned. "We'd better let the Colonel know what's going on. Maybe I'd better ride ahead and find him."

"Better not," Royce disagreed. "We're to stay here and guard Mrs. Tavington. Send a slave." He called up to Seth on the top of the coach. "Boy! Get the lady's featherbed down, and then run and tell the Colonel we're stopping here."

Seth's eyes met his father's briefly. He disliked taking orders from anyone other than his own people.

He muttered, "They could find him quicker on horseback."

His father said, low. "You get on now, Seth. Better for the soldiers to keep watch. You run fast and find the Colonel. This is going to be a lonesome road in a bit."

-----

Uneasily, the dragoons looked about as Silas cajoled the horses into pulling the carriage slightly to the side of the road. The old man set the brake, and took a deep sigh. The featherbed was unwrapped from its oilcloth covering. Jane refused to make a spectacle of herself to any passerby by lying outside on the ground, so it was smoothed out on the floor of the coach, and the oilcloth laid over it. Biddy allowed her to sit on the makeshift bed, but was still reluctant to let her lie down completely.

"It'll just take longer that way, honey. I know."

Seth set off at a run. As the last of the column passed them by, an officer from the Volunteers of Ireland came by to ask what was happening, and was assured that a messenger had been sent to inform Colonel Tavington that his wife's carriage had halted. The lieutenant nodded, and went his way. Pevney and Royce dismounted, and looped their horses' reins on nearby branches, wincing at the laboring woman's cries from inside the coach. Royce had a flask, and offered his comrade a sip.

"We might be here for hours," Royce grumbled.

Time passed slowly. The men loafed against the side of the carriage, trying not to listen. Silas climbed down and went off a short way to relieve himself. After awhile he strolled back, climbed back to the coachman's seat and lit a pipe. The air was still, and even the birdsong was silenced by the oppressive heat.

It was awkward in the carriage, even as big a carriage as they had. Letty held Jane's hands while Biddy checked to see if she was open enough to push the baby out. An early baby like this should not take too long, she told them. Miss Jane was being good and brave.

Jane did not find labor all that bad. She had experienced monthly courses that hurt as much or more. She was more afraid of feeling pain that actually suffering. And she was afraid for the baby. It was too soon—what if something went wrong? She took sips from the jug of tea Letty offered, and wondered if it would have been better to allow the men to spread the featherbed on the ground.

No. The thought of being spied on by strange men was too awful. Hot as it was, she would rather bear the stuffiness of the carriage than have the world see her like this.

"Maybe I could read to you," Letty offered.

"I don't know—" Jane hardly knew what she wanted. "Perhaps so."

Letty found the volume of poetry Jane had with her in the carriage, and opened it at random.

_"What if this present were the world's last night?…"_

----- 

That big young fellow was the Tavington's groom. From the back of a wagon, Moll Royston saw him running at a strong, steady pace, far faster than the tired horses were moving. Something must be wrong if he was on foot.

"You! Seth! Where're you heading? Where's Mrs. Tavington?"

Seth looked her way without breaking stride. "Looks like she's about to have that baby, Missus Royston. They had to stop the carriage. I got to tell the Colonel." In a flash he was gone.

"Poor thing," remarked one of the other women. "They say she weren't due for another month. Reckon the baby'll be born dead."

"Most like," another agreed. "It's mighty hard those last months. I thought she looked peaked."

"She could die, too," said Nan Haskins, thinking out loud. She missed the fun she had had with the Colonel, but she did not wish the poor lady dead. It happened all the time, though. Ladies were weak and delicate creatures: everyone knew that.

Moll growled at them. "You're a sorry lot of hens, clucking about how this one and that one are like to die. I better go back and see if I can help." She put a steadying hand on the side of the wagon and jumped down. "Nan, pass me my musket and patch box."

"I never heard tell of taking a musket to a birthing."

"Well, now you have. I ain't going nowhere without it." She trotted back along the road, nodding to some of the men she knew.

----- 

"It's _stopped?"_ Martin could not believe his luck.

"It sure is, Ben," the scout told him, grinning. "Biggest damn coach I ever see! There's just a pair of dragoons and a slave with 'em."

"Come on!"

-----

**Next—Chapter 22: Disaster**


	22. Disaster

**Chapter 22: Disaster**

Jane had not quite understood why Biddy wanted the oilcloth, too, in the coach, along with her other mysterious equipment. By now she understood. Having a baby was a messy, bloody business.

Biddy took another look at her, and said, "All right, honey. Next time the pain comes, you _push."_

"At last," Jane grumbled. "I don't see why I had to wait so long."

Patiently, Biddy explained again. "It's no good to push if you're not open enough for the baby to get out. Early babies have soft little heads. You don't want to hurt him, pushing against something that won't move!"

Humbly, Jane submitted. "Oh, no! I'm sorry I'm so cross, Biddy. I just want this to be over."

"It'll be over soon enough, honey."

Jane trembled, wracked with another spasm. Letty's hands in hers held her steady.

Biddy saw her face tighten, and urged her, "That's right, baby! Now you _push!"_

"Aaaah!" A cry of pain and fright escaped her. Something was moving inside her, breaking loose. Jane tried not to fight the sensation.

"That's the head, honey. Baby looks all right. One more good push and we'll get the little shoulders out!"

A shuddering pause, and then Jane convulsed in another labor pain.

"Push!" 

"Aaaah! Oh, Biddy! It hurts! Am I going to die?"

"You're doing mighty fine, honey. Here comes the rest of—him! Oh, my, honey, you've got yourself a little boy!"

Letty squeezed Jane's hands in excitement. "Is he all right, Mama?"

Biddy was glowing with happiness, smiling down at Jane with love and reassurance. "He's a fine baby. Small, maybe, but strong. Here, Letty you hand me that string and the knife. Jane, honey, you lie quiet. After I cut the cord we'll wipe him off and you can see. His color's good, and he's wiggling like a trout on the line."

"I still hurt. Ow! Am I going to have twins?"

Biddy smiled swiftly, intent on her work. Yes, the little boy was tiny, but he looked healthy. She turned him over and rubbed the small back. A soft cough, and the child wriggled again, stretching out his limbs. Breathing and moving and all the parts where they ought to be. It might be all right, after all.

"No, honey, that's just the afterbirth. Letty, you take care of our new little boy, and I'll rub Miss Jane's belly to help her get rid of it."

"What's afterbirth?"

"Oh, honey, you don't listen! It's just something in your body that's like a nest for the baby when he's growing. You don't need it anymore, but it has to come out the same way as baby did." She hummed quietly, an old, half-remembered charm her mother had taught her, massaging Jane's sore stomach.

"Is it blood?"

"Some of it's blood, but it's old blood, like your monthlies, not bright blood. It ain't nothing for you to worry about," Biddy declared, hoping it was true. This was a dangerous time. If something had torn inside Jane when she was laboring, she could hemorrhage and bleed to death. If she failed to expel all the afterbirth, she could die of childbed fever. Biddy continued her firm, gentle rubbing, trying everything she knew to keep her other little girl from harm.

Letty handled the tiny creature with trepidation. He was the smallest baby she had ever seen. He looked pink and healthy enough, but so, so little. The baby grimaced and opened his rosebud mouth in a faint mew. She wiped the birth fluids from the eyes and nose with a corner of the soft towel, and then held him close for Jane to see.

"Oh, Miss Jane, he's just the sweetest thing!" Letty felt her heart yearn over the child, wishing for one of her own someday, knowing it might never happen. She was a slave, not able to legally marry, and she did not want to bear another bastard into bondage, but oh! To have a little one of her own! Lucky, lucky Jane!

"Oh!" Jane cried. With sickening, plopping sounds, thick clots of bloody matter surged out. "Oh!" she cried again, feeling rather disgusted. "There is certainly no dignity in childbirth!"

"Babies don't care none for dignity," Biddy muttered scornfully, carefully examining the placenta. She sighed with relief. It looked to be all there. She gathered up the piece of oilcloth, with the afterbirth inside, and moved it to a corner of the carriage. "We'll want to bury that."

"Really?" Jane wondered. "Why not just throw it away?"

"You don't just throw the afterbirth away, honey. It's not right. My own Mama said it's powerful stuff and you bury it proper and out of sight."

Jane was horribly tired and sore. She considered asking Biddy to find the laudanum in the medicine chest, but then decided it was too much trouble to speak. She shut her eyes, lulled by Biddy's and Letty's cooing over her baby, and dozed. A man's cry of alarm roused her abruptly, her heart pounding like a deer chased by the hunter.

-----

Pevney did not see the tomahawk that whirled out of the underbrush and buried itself in his forehead. He felt only a hard blow, an unspeakable pain, and then a loosening of his limbs as the ground rose to meet him.

Royce gaped at the axe suddenly blossoming from his friend's head. He managed a hoarse shout, before shapes blurred with speed rushed out and smashed him to the earth with their rifle butts. One had a knife and was grabbing at his queue to pull his head back, but Royce kneed him hard. There was the blast of a musket, and one of his attackers slumped lifelessly.

The militiamen had ignored Silas, thinking the old man not worth considering, as he sat smoking a pipe up on his coachman's box. That he might have a firearm had not occurred to them.

"You old bastard!" bellowed one of Martin's men, clambering up a wheel to stab at Silas. But Silas had clubbed his musket and knocked the blade aside. The younger man dropped the sword, cursing, and tried to drag his opponent off his perch.

Martin had counted on speed and silence, taking only five men with him. The gunshot had spoiled his hopes of capturing Mrs. Tavington before the British could be alerted. Wild screams issued from the women in the coach. Briefly, he saw the pale, terrified face of a pretty young girl peering out of a window and heard another woman crying, "Get down, honey!"

Now he had only speed to accomplish his goal. The surviving dragoon lashed out with a booted foot, trying to trip him up. He was distracted by it.

Another of his men, hotheaded Jenkins, shouted, wrenching at the coach door, "You women come on out!"

A grey-haired slavewoman leaned out of a window called back, angry and frightened. "You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, you ruffians! This poor lady's just had a baby. You go away and leave us alone!"

"Shut up, nigger!" Jenkins fired his pistol, point-blank, into the coach. Another shot sounded, from Jenkins' brother, always taking the elder's lead.

-----

The worst had happened. Hearing the first gunshot and the shouts, the women huddled together. Letty was still clutching the baby, unable to stop screaming, and the baby, catching her terror, wailed with a newborn's disappointment at an unfriendly world. Biddy took him from her daughter and put him in Jane's arms. Jane herself was gasping for breath from fright. Crawling swiftly to each door, Biddy latched them against the intruders. She was praying under her breath to any power that might be listening. _Not like this, Lord, not like this. Did we come so far from home to die together?_

Letty peered out, and nearly vomited at the sight of a man's head half-split with an axe. Her mother tugged at her skirt, "Get down, honey!" she cried. "Looking don't do no good."

"Oh, Mama! What's going to happen? What's going to happen?" _Anything_, she thought wildly, _anything can happen. Those men might drag us out and force themselves on me, on poor Miss Jane. They might just shoot us. They might shoot the baby in front of us. _

Boots stamped on the side of the coach, climbing up the wheel. They could hear Silas grunting, fighting for his life.

Jane wondered if this was the end. _My poor baby._ _Oh, God, why did we stop? William will be so angry, but it won't matter because we'll all be dead._

Biddy was hugging Letty close, trying to calm her. And then the men were at the door, heads bobbing as they tried to see what was inside. Rough hands scrabbled at the door handles.

"You women come out!"

Jane realized she was holding the baby too tightly, but she was frozen with fear. Only Biddy seemed capable of action. She got to her feet and leaned out of the window.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, you ruffians. This poor lady's just had a baby. You go away and leave us alone!"

"Shut up, nigger!" A gunshot cracked, and another, splintering the coach door on the far side. Biddy spun around, mouth open with shock, clutching at her chest, which bloomed with the rich red of hothouse roses.

Jane and Letty stared with disbelief and shrieked with one voice. Biddy collapsed to her knees, moaning, and then fell face-first over Jane's legs.

She tried to push herself up. _I wish I could—_

Her arm gave way, and she collapsed again, staring at the worn wood flooring. With a last effort, she raised her head a little and saw the bundle in Jane's arms.

"Baby…" she whispered, eyes already glazing.

"Mama!" Letty scrambled over to her, pressing her face close, hearing a last rasping breath, and then nothing more. "Oh, she's dead! She's dead!"

Jane screamed in utter despair and pain. The baby echoed her thinly. The door was rattled again, and the sounds of fighting and cursing went on and on. Boots thumped overhead. Someone else was trying to climb up the coach. There was thud and a cry, and a body fell to the ground. Then another, distant gunshot popped, and Jane heard the sound of another body falling, and all around her, and from within her, cries of agony and confusion.

-----

When Moll heard the first gunshot, she considered running back to the column for help. Only for a moment, though. Gripping her musket, she trotted down the road toward the shouts and screams. As she rounded a turn, Moll was enraged at the sight of men firing into Mrs. Tavington's coach. The two dragoon guards were on the ground. One was moving feebly. The other, his head a red ruin, would never move again. Another man, surely a rebel, lay nearby, the back of his rifleman's frock sodden with blood.

"Dirty cowards" she snarled. A big man in a fancy blue uniform was climbing up the side of coach behind Silas. French for sure. Moll was a sergeant's widow, and she knew her uniforms. In a flash he had clubbed the old man over the head. Silas tumbled limply from the coachman's box, and lay motionless.

Her musket was lifted and aimed and spat fire. The blue-clad Frenchman tumbled in his turn. Moll heard one of the villains shout, "Jean!" and run to the man.

"Dead, or I'm a rebel," Moll grunted. The attackers were looking her way, confused, but Moll had ducked into the underbrush and set to quickly reloading her musket. Distantly, she heard women's screams from the coach, and her blood boiled.

"Think you're mighty brave, attacking helpless females!" Powder, ball, patch, and ramrod. With sure hands, the weapon was reloaded, and Moll aimed it carefully at the brute who had been trying to force his way into the coach. A crack, and he fell with a squawk.

A man in a brown coat was running in her direction, tomahawk in hand. The other two surviving rebels left the coach and followed him. Moll faded behind a tree, trying not to betray her position. She crouched low, and set about reloading. From behind the big pine, she could see the road and looked twice, at the horseman galloping their way. She nearly whooped with triumph. It was the Colonel, and he looked like the Angel of Death.

Behind him were his dragoons, at full gallop. Seth was riding behind one of them, and leaped from the horse, landing with hardly a stumble as he ran to his father.

The rebels must have heard the thunder of hooves too, for the man in front stopped short, and put out his hand to the foremost of his followers. Looking about them, they began running back to the swamp. _Probably where they stowed their horses._ _Oh no, boys, you ain't getting away so easy! _Moll popped up again, and fired at their retreating backs. The shortest of the men stumbled and clutched at his arm. The brown-clad leader saw him falter, and wrapped an arm around him, helping him run.

"Missed! Thunder!" Moll would have liked to have finished him off, but she had to help Mrs. Tavington. The Colonel was nearly on her, and Moll stepped from the bushes, snatching her cap from her head and waving it at him. He pulled up, looking about.

"Rebels!" Moll shouted and pointed. "They attacked the coach. There's three on foot, headed for the swamp. One of them's the leader. Don't let him get away, Colonel!"

Tavington stared at the dreadful scene, appalled. "Moll, see to Mrs. Tavington! Bordon, with me!" He could see the bandits slipping away. A red mist floated before his eyes. Spurring his horse, he charged after the enemy. _I ought to go to Jane,_ he thought wildly. _I ought to go to Jane, but I dare not! What if she is dead? _

If she were dead, there was nothing he could do but avenge her. These devils would pay. He saw the figures making for horses tied near a ravine. _They think they can lose us in the swamp. They'll never get that far. _One of the figures was in brown and seemed familiar. Tavington gave his head a shake. No, by God! He _was_ familiar!

"Martin! You bastard! I'm going to kill you!" he screamed into the wind.

It _was_ Martin, supporting another of his gang. No rebel flag in sight, Tavington gloated, his sword flashing before him, an extension of himself.

Bordon pulled to the side, after the last of the trio, who looked back at them, face white and scared. Tavington left him to it, and pursued his own prey. Within ten yards of the rebel horses, he slashed down at the wounded man, nearly severing his head. Martin loosed his grip on his follower, and turned to fight.

He glowered at his old enemy, who was back, it seemed, from the dead, "I thought we settled it the last time we met that you are _not_ the better man."

Tavington hefted his sword, approaching with a hot gleam of bloodlust in his eye. "Today I am."

Martin had not drawn his pistol. Already discharged, then. Tavington realized, trying not to imagine how it had been discharged. He would not think about the coach, about what horrors might be waiting there. He must deal with this man first.

A half dozen of his dragoons closed in around them. Tavington rapped out, "Leave him to me!" He would not waste time and risk this man escaping.

His enemy was facing him, knife in one hand and tomahawk in another: undaunted, unashamed, unrepentant, and ready to kill him, if he could. Tavington considered his options, and then decided to spare his horse. He leaped down, sword in hand, striding to meet Martin and finish everything that lay between them. He drew a knife with his left hand, and moved in.

He feinted; and Martin twisted to parry the blow that never came. Instead, Tavington spun in with the knife, and raked Martin along his side. It would have been a disabling blow against a slower man. Tavington had never imagined this would be easy. The blood dripping from his knife as he sprang away was some comfort.

Martin was swinging from the side, quick as a serpent. Their blades met; and struck fire from each other, and slipped aside. The two circled each other, alert as fighting cocks in the pit, fighting not for country or honor or wealth, but because neither would give way to the other. Tavington watched Martin's eyes: for the eyes told everything. A sudden change and the man was leaping at him, axe raised. Tavington met him and their blades locked together as the two men glared face to face. Martin attempted to smash his head against his, but Tavington remembered that trick and dodged to the side, lashing out at Martin in his turn. The man stumbled; just enough. Tavington pulled down with his sword, breaking away from the other man's guard, and slashed low, cutting Martin along the back of his knee. The man screamed hoarsely, and stumbled, sliding down the edge of the road into the ravine.

Tavington plunged after him, tripping on a cypress root. He crashed into Martin's back and the two men rolled down the rugged hill, each stabbing at the air as they tried to catch a momentary advantage. Below them was the swamp.

Fetid green water surged over the two of them, splashing into Tavington's nose, into his eyes. Martin's leg wound burned, spilling red into the green, as his boot slid under a submerged branch and was trapped in the mire. Tavington was on his back, helpless. Martin swung back with the tomahawk, and then hacked at his mortal enemy. He missed by inches, grunting in frustration, and tried again.

_My boot_-- Martin frantically tried to free his leg. Tavington was struggling to his feet, covered with mud, shaking himself like a dog. With a mad growl, he threw himself on Martin. He caught at his enemy's arm, spinning him around to face him, sword tip against his breast.

And thus, in what seemed like an eternity for Tavington and Martin, but which was only a fraction of a second, a man's life hung in the balance. Martin had just enough time to think with love and regret of his family: of Charlotte, so recently his, and who now would alone once more; of his children, living and dead—and then Tavington lunged with all his weight and strength behind the blow, and ran him through the heart. The sword's point nailed Benjamin Martin to the bottom of the swamp that had been his refuge. In a moment more, he was dead.

Tavington studied this death more intently than most, searching the man's eyes for any hint of consciousness. It was over, and Tavington felt cheated. Rage exploded, thinking of what this man had tried to do; might have done…

"Bastard!" he shouted again, jerking his sword from the corpse. He grabbed at the body, as it subsided into the stinking ooze. "I'll kill you!" He brought the blade down in a hissing chop, and hacked at the dead body, again, and again. A spray of green water fountained at every blow. "I'll kill you! I'll kill you!"

A hand was reaching for his shoulder, and Tavington whirled on this new enemy.

"Colonel," Bordon was saying soothingly. "He's dead. There's nothing more you can do here. Mrs. Tavington has need of you. Come with me now."

Jane! He did not want to think about her. He had failed her and did not want to face her. But he was a man and her husband, and he must.

He swallowed, and shut his eyes. "Is she alive?"

"Yes. She's alive, and so is your son--"

"My son…" Tavington found the idea too difficult at the moment. He had a son…

Bordon was still speaking to him in the same quiet, persuasive voice, "--but she is in great distress and you must come to her." Bordon's hand was on his back, propelling him along. They splashed through the swamp water and then struggled up the muddy rise to the road. Tavington glanced at his friend and saw that he was clutching his blood-drenched left hand to his chest.

"You are wounded?"

"A slash across the forearm. Come, now."

"What happened to Jane?"

"The brutes fired into the coach. Her nurse was killed."

_Oh, no. _"They killed _Biddy?"_

"I fear so. From what I can gather, she attempted to protect your wife and was shot for her pains. Moll and some of the men are trying to extricate the body. She fell inside, her body sheltering Mrs. Tavington, and her foot was lodged in such a way that pulling her out is difficult."

Biddy had saved his life, and he had given her his word to reward her. She was dead now, and his word was worthless. Tavington walked to the coach, sick at heart. Martin lay forgotten behind him.

-----

Letty stood trembling with grief and shock as Seth wrapped her mother's lifeless body in a sheet. A ragged wail escaped her, trailing off into emptiness. Not all the weeping and crying in the world could reach Mama where she had gone.

Jane was still conscious, listening to Letty's heartbroken keening. Painful sobs wracked her, stealing the breath from her body.

"Moll, in my little trunk under the seat—there is my best handkerchief. Please take it out to cover Biddy's face."

Stepping over Jane carefully, Moll rummaged through the trunk and found some of the finest linen she had ever seen. "I remember this! Mighty pretty lace trimming. You sure, ma'am?"

'Oh—yes!" She was trembling herself, feeling very cold and lost. "Take it out directly," she babbled, "and cover Biddy's face. I cannot bear that dirt should fall in her eyes." She moaned, her hands waving futilely.

Moll pressed a big hand on her shoulder. "Now you lie still, ma'am. I'll see to it." She jumped from the coach, and Jane heard her consoling Letty.

"Look at this, honey. Ain't this pretty? Mrs. Tavington sent it for your Ma's face. Let's help the boy here get her all fixed up."

Letty fell to her knees beside her mother, kissing the dead eyes, cheeks, lips. Moll patted her back, and kept on with tucking in the makeshift shroud.

"I know, honey. I know it's hard where they go on and leave you. I thought I'd just about die myself when I lost my own Ma. It's terrible hard to bear. We'll fix her up real nice and the Colonel'll see the words said over her proper-like. Can't do better than that for her. You give her a last kiss and we'll put this nice kerchief over her. Now we'll finish with the winding sheet and tie it off. There. Not many get sent off so fine."

Jane could not keep her eyes open. She was so cold, so tired and wretched. Someone was coming into the coach, but she was too weak to object.

"Jane." Her husband whispered her name, as he knelt beside her.

She felt dazed and helpless. "Did they put my handkerchief on Biddy? Did they? I told Moll to put my best handkerchief on her, and if she doesn't I don't know what I'll—"

"Hush—hush, my dear. Moll is seeing to everything—"

"I don't want to bury her here where it happened. I want to take her far away, and bury her with a proper service. I'm so afraid those men will throw her in the swamp. Please don't let them throw her in the swamp—"

Tavington had never imagined trying to comfort grief like this. His triumph over Martin seemed a trumpery thing, bought too dearly. He had not reckoned on his enemy's persistent malice. All in all, he had made a hash of protecting Jane from harm. Now her beloved nurse was dead, and he wondered if Jane would ever forgive him. The coach floor was slick with blood. Anxiously, he examined his small, too-early son, lying so quietly on the quilt beside Jane. Yes, he was breathing: tiny, tiny breaths, yet the most precious in the world to Tavington. Awkwardly, he stroked the infant's face with a fingertip. He was useless here. Where was that woman? Jane had fallen into a restless stupor, exhausted by her hysterics.

He gave her a quick kiss and left the coach, his soaked boots and stockings making a wet, squelching sound as he walked. There was no time to do anything about that, even if he had had the energy. He would change his linen at camp, and have a trooper clean and oil his boots thoroughly. _They must last until Charlestown, at least._ He could not imagine what he must look like, muddy and bloody as he was.

_Better than Martin does,_ _at least,_ he acknowledged

A pair of his dragoons were retrieving the dead rebel's captured horses. The men detailed to the dead were dragging them out of the way, tumbling the bodies down the ravine into the swamp. Tavington was not equal to even the faintest smile as he saw a flash of French blue, followed by the rest of Martin's henchmen. Faint, dull splashes announced their make-shift burials.

_No, I'm certainly not going to serve good, faithful Biddy likewise._

Seth was hovering anxiously over his old father, who was dazed and bleeding from the head. A crushing blow might have fractured his skull, Tavington guessed, from long experience with combat injuries. His own men had suffered, too.

Pevney's lifeless body was slung over his horse. Royce managed to mount his own. Bordon was leaning back against a tree. All these men must be seen to.

"Moll, help Letty back into the coach." The girl was in an appalling state, big eyes wide and staring. She was in shock, and would need careful treatment. "My dear Letty," he murmured. "you need to sit quietly. Do not fear for your mother. We shall take her with us to the encampment and give her decent Christian burial. There is nothing more you can do now. Come along, my dear."

He gave her his arm, soaked with blood and swamp water as it was. Without a word, she clutched at it, stumbling like a blind woman. Moll bustled ahead, clambering back into the coach. Tavington helped the half-fainting Letty up, and Moll hauled her inside.

"You there!" Tavington waved over a half dozen dragoons. "Find some rope and tie the poor woman's body to the top of the coach. We will bury her in camp."

No one dared object, and with Seth's sturdy help the task was soon done and the macabre bundle secured. Seth eased Silas up beside him in the driver's seat, the old man's head lolling alarmingly. There was nothing else to be done. Putting Silas on horseback would probably be worse for him.

With equal concern, he turned to have a look at Bordon's wound. His captain saw him coming, and managed a long-suffering grimace of a smile.

"I think," he declared, sounding strangely light-headed, "that I have endured all the wounds in His Majesty's Service that I care for. One does not mind a scar or two—that simply gives one that special martial air—but between the stab in January and this—" he winced, examining the torn flesh, "I have reached my limit, I think. Anymore would simply be _de trop_."

Tavington pulled off his cravat and looped it over Bordon's head, making a crude sling for the damaged arm.

"Can you ride?"

Bordon was dangerously close to shock himself. Tavington studied him anxiously.

"Yes," his friend finally determined. "I can ride, if someone can help me mount. That, I fear, is beyond me at the moment."

Tavington's glare propelled his men into action. One dragoon found a fallen log that would do for a mounting block. Another held the captain's horse. With Tavington's helping hand, Bordon was settled in his saddle, and the reins placed in his good hand.

He swayed precariously, but did not seem likely to swoon. Instead, he peered over the edge of the ravine. Tavington looked down, as well. The dead rebels were sprawled below in the shallow swamp water. The Frenchman had fallen over Martin, but Tavington could not fail to see his enemy. Martin's arms were flung wide, his mouth half-open and filling with muck.

Bordon looked at him, saying the one thing that his colonel might take comfort in. "And so, the Ghost will haunt us no more."

"I think not. May he rot in hell."

'How fares your lady?"

"Not well. The boy came a month early, but seems to be holding his own. It's in God's hands, I suppose."

"Dear me," sighed Bordon. "As bad as that?"

-----

Moll settled Letty down next to Jane on the floor of the jolting carriage. The big woman took the baby up in her arms, cuddling him with surprising tenderness. "You're a good boy, little Master Tavington. You let the girls get some sleep." Letty shuddered, and Moll's voice gentled into a low maternal rumble. "Yes, you sleep now, honey. It's best when you've had a bad shock. Shut your eyes and we'll catch up with the rest of the army before you know it."

Jane was conscious on and off, a dull misery hammering at her whenever she remembered that Biddy was dead. She reached for Letty's hand and clutched it in her own. Letty did not draw away, but turned toward her and pressed her face against Jane's shoulder, gasping out a few tired sobs. After awhile she was silent and motionless, exhausted into sleep. Jane shut her own eyes, trying to escape into unconsciousness.

She had no idea how long they had traveled, but awakened again when Seth reined in the team, and the carriage slowed to a stop. She could hear her husband issuing orders, but had no desire to face the world. Booted feet were scrambling on top of the coach, untying the shrouded remains of Biddy, and lowering her to the ground.

"—Gently!" Her husband sounded tired, too. She could hear him approaching, his tread crunching the pebbles underfoot. The light through her closed eyelids brightened as the coach door opened.

"Madam, we are arrived," he said quietly. "A stretcher is being brought to convey you to our tent. I sent a rider ahead to make ready for you and the child."

Unwillingly she opened her eyes, but could find nothing to say. He twitched a ghost of a smile at her, and added, "They have found a laundry basket for a kind of cradle, and all will be as comfortable for you as possible." He eased carefully onto a seat and leaned over Letty, who was awake, too: but silent and listless.

"Letty, dear girl, we shall see to your poor mother directly. The chaplain of the Volunteers is standing ready, and the grave is dug—a good, deep one in the churchyard of this little village where we are stopped. Come now, and I shall take you there."

Moll moved as if to get up, but Tavington shook his head. "No, Moll. Stay with Mrs. Tavington and the child. You have done good service today and I shall not forget it." Seeing Jane's faint frown, he asked, "Is that acceptable to you, Madam? Or would you prefer I saw you to the tent?"

"No—oh, no! Please take care of Letty and see that Biddy has a proper burial. I only wish I could come, too." She touched Letty's forearm as the girl got up. "I want to bid her goodbye. Perhaps—"

Tavington caught Moll's eye, and the woman shook her head.

"I am very sorry, but it cannot be. You must take great care of yourself and settle down to rest as quickly as possible. Letty can tell you about the service when we return."

He helped Letty down and put her hand on his arm. "Come now."

Jane blew out a weary breath, envying them both. Tears started up again, but Moll broke into her unhappy thoughts, determined to rally Jane's courage.

"Now you stop, ma'am. Of course you're sorry for her, but you've got to think about your baby. Here-- you look-- what a little sweetheart! You can't go making yourself sick with grief and spoiling your milk. Biddy'd want you to take good care of this little mite."

Her own son. So small, so helpless. Jane watched in wonder as the little pink mouth pouted and grimaced. "He's so tiny."

"He'll be all right, so long as you keep him fed and warm. I seen early babies before, and they catch up just fine, mostly." _If they live._ Moll had seen her share of babies laid in the cold earth, but now was no time to frighten Mrs. Tavington. Babies lived or died, and that was just the way it was. What mattered was that she had fought for this little fellow, and killed men for him, and she felt a strong interest in seeing that he had the best chance possible.

The stretcher was brought, and Moll stooped to pick up the young lady, and get her situated. The poor thing needed rest and quiet, and something warm in her belly. Colonel Tavington had given Moll a word of praise, and her heart swelled with pride. It was too early to tell, but maybe, just maybe, he would allow her to stay with his wife, and show them both how useful she could be.

-----

The sun was low in the sky, leaving the day behind in streaks of rose and gold, when Biddy was finally laid to rest. Letty was cried out, and listened to the rolling, beautiful words like an empty vessel aching to be filled.

Afterwards, Tavington helped her cast a little dust into the grave, supporting her when she seemed about to faint. Her mother lay below, wrapped in white, already one of the shapeless, anonymous dead. Letty stood, leaning on the strong arm, while the officers came by, Lord Rawdon first among them, murmuring words of sympathy. The funeral party broke up, and Tavington turned to escort the girl back to the tent she would share with Jane.

"I am sorry," Tavington told her, with a little diffidence, "that there is no time to mark her grave properly. They will put up a cross, of course, but nothing more."

"It doesn't matter," Letty said, her voice raw with too much grief. "God knows where she is."

-----

**Notes:** Yes, I know that in the film, Martin and his men are shown at Yorktown. That's completely wrong historically, and this time I've decided to ditch it. There were no units of South Carolina militia in Virginia. I have disposed of Benjamin Martin as my story warrants.

Over two hundred reviews! Thank you all so much! Your interest and your ideas mean a lot to me!

**Next—Chapter 23: The Pleasures of Charlestown**


	23. The Pleasures of Charlestown

**Chapter 23: The Pleasures of Charlestown**

Well-built and reliable, and aside from the bloodstains and the two bullet holes, not much the worse for its adventures, the big carriage rumbled into Charlestown on a Friday afternoon. Inside the coach all was quiet. The last week had been spent in numb wretchedness. Letty was still mourning her mother, and slept a great deal while they were on the road.

Jane was silently miserable. The coach had become horrible to her, for every day she had to step again and again on the place where poor Biddy had died. Each time was a knife in her heart.

The baby was surprisingly sturdy, and was well-sheltered in a sheepskin-lined laundry basket on the floor of the coach. The redoubtable Moll hardly took her eyes from her charge, for nothing was too good for the family she had now adopted as her own. The child had been named William Francis, after his father and their good friend Lord Rawdon, who had agreed to be the boy's godfather.

Jane rejoiced in her little son, putting him to her breast with a poignant, aching love, but she was grieving too: bereft of the kind foster-mother who had tended her from the day she was born. She felt horribly guilty: Biddy had come with her at her demand, spending the last months of her life cooking and cleaning in a little backcountry hovel. That the heartless men who had killed her had themselves paid for their crime with their lives was little consolation: Biddy was gone, and Jane feared that Letty might never be the same. Jane had never before recognized how important the unconditional affection of her servants was to her. No one, not even Miss Gilpin, had ever truly cared about her to the same degree. It was shaming and humbling, and Jane vowed to herself that Letty would be protected and cherished for the rest of her life, come what may.

And Jane was physically unwell, too: suffering from persistent afterpains, an unpleasant collateral affect of labor of which she had never been informed. At times they were nearly as bad as labor itself. William had been very quiet and kind, and let her know that he had already sent directions ahead of the column to find them quarters. Eventually, when Jane was better, they would have to pay a duty call to her father, but Jane would be spared living in the same household.

Much had changed, since she had last been in Charlestown. New faces in the street, new names on the shops. Many people had left the city to join the rebels; some had left the Colonies forever, frightened away by the years of violence.

"Here we are, Madam," her husband called, as the carriage door was opened, and he dismounted and carefully handed her down.

"Can we burn the coach?" she asked Tavington. "I don't want ever to see it again."

Tavington smiled in wry understanding. "I shall have it sold, and perhaps find something lighter for our use later. With any luck, the only places you will need to travel are here about town, or out to your father's. Let us get you settled first." Very gently, he took the baby from Letty, handed him to Jane, and then helped Letty down from the coach as well, patting her hand with a word of encouragement.

Jane's new home would be on the floor above a milliner's shop. She knew the shop well, and the pleasant owner, the widowed Mrs. Todd, who lived in the rooms behind the shop itself. Mrs. Todd expressed the greatest satisfaction at the honor of offering lodgings to Mr. Rutledge's daughter. Jane nodded wearily, and did not listen to William's urgent whispers to their landlady. Nor did she respond to Mrs. Todd's compassionate glances in her direction. They ascended the steep, narrow stairs, and Jane was pleasantly surprised. The three rooms provided plenty of room for their little household, and when William left for headquarters, she and Letty and Moll took some time to get settled. Afterwards, all Jane wanted to do was to feed her little boy, and to take a nap in a bed that was not moving.

Within a few days, she felt able to call on a few relatives. Mary Laurens was the first of these. She was fond of Jane, and willing to listen politely to some of her adventures in the horrid backcountry. She was willing to admire young Master William Francis Tavington, as long as she was not expected to hold him herself. She even unbent so far as to agree to be his godmother, an undertaking that would require that she hold him at least once, when in the church.

"Such a tiny thing. A whole month early, you say? It is a wonder he survived. A very strong boy, no doubt, taking after his soldier father."

"Yes," Jane said, tremulous at the memory. "Biddy called him 'small but strong.' It was very nearly that last thing she said to me. The vile rebels attacked us and shot her down as she tried to protect me. I feel so very miserable and low whenever I think of it."

"My dear Jane! How dreadful for you! And how you must miss poor Biddy, who had been with you so long! I know I should be quite lost without my Dulsey and my good old Sam. Biddy was baptized, was she not?"

"Oh, yes, thank Heavens! When Letty was little, Papa permitted them to be baptized together."

"Well, then, that is a comfort, indeed! I remember talking about the matter once with Doctor Fellowes, who assured me that baptized Christians may be admitted into Heaven even if they are black slaves. Isabella Middleton was here at the time, having tea with us, and she was quite uneasy at the idea of—mixing, you know, but Doctor Fellowes insisted that it was so. I am inclined to agree. I feel certain that there must be a little corner in Heaven set aside for faithful slaves. Did Biddy receive a Christian burial?"

"Yes. Colonel Tavington saw to it. I was so weak—but Letty—poor Letty—wrapped her mother in a sheet, and the Colonel saw that the service was read over her."

"That was very kind of him," Cousin Mary allowed. It was very inconvenient that Jane was still bound to that brute of a husband. Inconvenient for _her_, and no doubt still worse for Jane, though the girl seemed pleased to have a child now. There was no accounting for tastes. Had the man died, Mary believed she could still have offered a home to Jane, child or not. It was not as if she would have had to tend the infant herself. It would have been better, of course, if the child had been a girl, who could have been brought up to become a civilized addition to her household someday. It was all very unfortunate. She then turned the conversation to subjects she found more pleasant: the social whirl of Charlestown, the latest scandal, and the deplorable shortages of necessities like sugar and lace.

Jane listened with only half an ear. She was still thinking of Biddy. She would talk to Doctor Fellowes herself. She was not satisfied at the idea of a little corner of Heaven for her beloved nurse. If Jane were found acceptable to Heaven someday, she wanted Biddy to be right there to greet her and to be with her. She wanted her to be waiting right at the Gate and to open her arms to Jane and pull her close in the soft, tight embrace that had always meant love and safety to her. Jane would put her head on Biddy's shoulder once more, and that would be Heaven indeed…

Her eyes were watering. She coughed and brushed the tears aside, trying to listen to Cousin Mary's gossip, delivered in the usual die-away drawl. It was hard to believe any of it mattered.

"And—" said her cousin, eyes gleaming with the shocking news, her voice a little louder and higher with genuine excitement--"Have you heard what it proposed by some of the British officers?"

"I'm sure I have not, Cousin."

"An _African Ball_! My dear, some of those mad Englishmen have organized a ball, and have invited their colored mistresses to it! Think of it! Mulattos and quadroons and women _black as tar_ all dressed up in silks and satins; mincing in high-heeled dancing slippers, and fluttering fans! The world is upside down, I believe. I could not credit it when I heard it, but it is only too true! It is to be held Wednesday se'ennight at the Assembly Rooms. I shall never feel the same about the place again, I can assure you!"

"It sounds very odd. Of course, everyone likes to dance."

"My dear Jane, do you not understand? The _officers_ will dance with _those women_! Together! In public! It shocks me even to repeat the news!"

Jane had been through too much in the past few months to feel the same righteous indignation. Of course, it was all very improper and odd, but so was nearly everything since the war had come to South Carolina. Such things had nothing to do with her, and she let Cousin Mary go on about them, saying very little herself. Her point was gained, and her son had a godmother.

-----

Letty, hearing the same news in Mrs. Laurens' kitchen, felt very differently. She was deeply depressed since losing her mother. Her world had changed, very much for the worse, and it was hard to manage a smile for Moll, when they tidied the rooms above Mrs. Todd's. It was hard to curl Miss Jane's hair as if nothing had happened. Sometimes she and her mistress would catch each other's eye, and they would both start sobbing, holding each other tight. But Miss Jane had the Colonel to look after her, and she had her little baby, and Letty felt alone and unloved.

Mrs. Laurens' Dulsey was no help. She was a well-meaning woman, who gave Letty a big piece of peach pie, and some kind words of sympathy, but she was not _Mama._ No one was, no one ever would be. No one would ever love her like her Mama.

Dulsey was chopping greens to stew, and told Letty about the ball those crazy men had planned, trying to make her laugh.

"A ball, for slaves?" Letty wondered. It did not seem ridiculous to her. It seemed like a dream, a beautiful dream that only strange people like the English could conjure up.

"Yes, honey. I'll tell you that the Missus and her friends just about _died_ when they heard. Goin' to be at the Assembly ballroom. If I can, I'm goin' to slip out and have a look those women all dressed up. That'll be a sight to see. Jenny, Miz Rhett's maid, who done run off with the army, is goin' to be there. Her Mama done tried to get her to come home, but Jenny likes her gentleman. He give her money and clothes, and real gold earbobs, and he treat her real nice. I hear tell he give her a yellow silk gown to wear and satin slippers for her feet. Ain't that fine?"

"Oh, my!" She did not know Jenny personally, but had heard of her. Not as pretty as Letty herself, she had been told, but _younger_. Time was slipping away. Letty would be twenty-five soon, and too old even to dream of going to a ball. She imagined herself at the Assembly ballroom, dressed in Miss Jane's blue satin gown and holding the peacock fan. A gentleman in a red coat would bow to her and lead her to the dance. There would be music: beautiful music, and she would dance the minuet and bow and smile herself and speak like a lady in a novel. She ate her pie mechanically, staring at the plastered wall, entranced with her vision.

-----

The afterpains had stopped, and Jane was feeling somewhat better. Mr. and Mrs. Ashbury Rutledge had not been among the relations to visit since Jane's return to Charlestown. Jane knew what was proper, even if they were unequal to it. She wrote a note to her father: a very civil note, informing him of her return to Charlestown, of her confinement and illness, and that she was now well enough to wish to call upon him and Selina, with all appropriate filial duty.

The answer was prompt and equally civil. Her father and stepmother would be very happy to receive her and her husband, and they hoped to see the child as well.

Tavington had disposed of the damnably heavy coach, and had bought a light chariot for town use. He had considered a curricle, but if he were to transport Jane and the baby, a closed carriage was a must. It only required two horses, but Tavington enjoyed the luxury of having spare horses, and by using only two, they could put together better-matched teams. Silas was still not well, but Seth was a skillful and fearless driver.

When informed of the proposed visit to the Rutledges, Tavington was resigned to the propriety of it. He would be leaving with Lord Rawdon to head west to Fort Ninety-Six tomorrow, but he could spare some of his afternoon for such a visit. It was very dutiful of Jane, but he doubted either she or he himself would derive much pleasure from such a meeting.

"Very well, Jane. If we must, we must. However, I won't endure anything bur civility from them. The moment they say anything to you I consider disrespectful we will leave and trouble ourselves no more about them!"

"Just—don't say anything about Biddy, please," Jane pleaded. "If Papa were to find out what happened to her and then say it was my fault, I don't know what I'd do. I might fly at him, or—well, I don't know what, but I can't bear the idea of him talking about it."

"As you wish. I shall say nothing." Tavington personally thought the Rutledges unlikely to show any interest in Jane's experiences in the past few months. If the subject were brought up, she was just as likely to be wounded by her father's indifference to poor Biddy's fate. Tavington was not entirely comfortable with the subject himself. He knew he owed Biddy his life, and now he would never have the opportunity to repay his debt. He had failed to protect her, and the failure rankled. Jane and Letty were both clearly suffering. He hated feeling helpless. There had to be _something_ he could do about the matter. The two of them rode to the Rutledge house in silence, lost in thought and unhappy memories.

The visit passed more easily than she had expected. Ashbury Rutledge was content to have Jane out of his life, and Selina had done her grieving for Tavington. They were greeted politely; and Aunt Alice, now very much in charge of the household, was all courteous attention as she showed them to the parlor. Jane looked about, briefly disoriented. The room seemed different, and much brighter. She realized that the walls had been freshly covered, and were now an eggshell silk, painted with flowers. It was very attractive. Aunt Alice admitted it had been her own thought, and accepted Jane's compliments with a smile.

The children, of course, were the main topic of conversation. Jane's father peered at tiny Will, and laughed. "Fancy me a grandfather! Who are his godparents?"

"Cousin Mary Laurens; and Lord Rawdon was so obliging as to stand as well." And attentive godparents they were--at least as far as worldly goods were concerned. A little prince's ransom of silver had accompanied William Francis Tavington's christening: an engraved cup, a porringer, a fork and a spoon; a little silver-backed brush and a tiny, silver-mounted comb. The Tavington scion was already living a privileged life.

Ashbury Rutledge gave the baby a calculating look, and said, "A shrewd choice!" He nodded condescendingly to Jane, and remarked, "Glad to see you making the most of your opportunities!" Jane smiled tightly, and Tavington helpfully turned the subject to the Rutledges' own children.

Selina was edgy and hostile, and stiffly defiant when her children were brought in. Jane kissed little Ash, now a sturdy toddler. He did not remember her, of course, which caused her a little pain. When he fidgeted in her arms, she let him go, with another, more final kiss.

"And here is our own new boy, Thomas Pinckney Rutledge," her father proudly said, making the introductions.

Baby Tom was four months old—old enough to look about with his baby blue eyes, and to give some hints as to whom he would eventually resemble. Jane sighed at the dark hair. She forced a little smile for her father, thinking _None so blind as will not see._ Selina looked beyond them both, as she held the child in her arms, meeting Tavington's eyes with a lift of her perfect chin.

Tavington himself, refusing to be embarrassed, studied the little boy thoughtfully. He was his, undoubtedly, but not his. He would never be able to claim this child. The boy would grow up, he hoped, in comfort here in South Carolina, and would have all the opportunities the legal husband of his mother could provide. It was hard not to be a touch wistful, when the little fellow turned bright eyes his way, and twitched a bit of a grin at him. There was nothing to be done, though. He had been careless, but he could hardly wish the child unborn. He dutifully took him in his arms, gave him a kiss on the top of his warm and fuzzy head, and then handed him firmly back to Selina.

"A fine boy," he remarked to Rutledge. "May he be a good and dutiful son to you in years to come." He did not look at Selina. Instead, he seated himself beside Jane, and took William Francis from her.

-----

Letty had heard more about the African Ball. By Friday, dreams had evolved into plans. She was going to go, somehow. Miss Jane always went to bed early these days. Letty and Moll slept in the baby's room, and Moll would not be surprised if Letty stayed up late in the sitting room, sewing or reading. The Colonel was gone: riding with Lord Rawdon to rescue the soldiers trapped at a place called Fort Ninety-Six.

She would get the gown out of the trunk, under the pretext of mending it. She really would have to add a gusset to the bust to fit in it properly, but she could do that and then remove it later, if she worked very carefully. She could get the other things she would need, too: the silver tissue petticoat, a lace-trimmed shift, silk stockings, and the wonderful peacock feather fan. Miss Jane's slippers pinched a little, but Letty could wear them. She would slip out after the baby was fed and the others were asleep, stay for an hour or two, and slip back in with no one the wiser.

How to get to the ball had to be settled. Finally Letty decided that she would wear her long dark cloak over her borrowed finery, the hood pulled down around her face. She could go past the back of the houses, from kitchen to kitchen. As long as she was careful, she should be safe enough.

Everything conspired against her the Tuesday before the ball, and she almost despaired. The baby was restless and kept them all up the night before. If he fell sick, Letty would not be able to leave. The gown lay in a chair in the sitting room, calling to her.

But by the morning the child was perfectly well.

"Here, give him to me, Moll," Jane said, sinking into the rocking chair. "Perhaps he'd like a bit of breakfast."

William Francis found his breakfast very much to his taste. Over the sound of his greedy sucking, Jane remarked, "It's a very good idea to change the bodice of that gown. It certainly would not fit my new figure. I hope I don't lose what I've gained when Will is weaned."

"No use worrying about that, ma'am," Moll pointed out, and she cleared the little table. "That gown's going to be out of fashion before the little rogue is ready to leave the breast. Might be a good idea to put a extra lining in it too, Letty, in case the Missus leaks!"

"Oh, Moll!" Jane protested, embarrassed.

Letty agreed with Moll. "Now, Miss Jane, that just good sense to think about it--but I think it would be better to use some sort of cloth we can push under the stays. If the lining gets wet, the silk will be spoiled. I'll work on it. You never know when you might get a dinner invitation. Your figure has changed since having the baby, and we need to be ready." It was all true, but she knew it was an excuse, and felt guilty. She had never deceived Miss Jane before.

The day crawled by. All the common, pleasant pursuits of daily life became a torment and a weariness. Letty fussed about the rooms, toying with the mending, reading to Miss Jane while she fed the baby, playing a little on the spinet. She could hardly keep still.

"Are you all right, Letty?" Jane wondered, when Letty got up yet again to look out the window.

"I guess I'm just restless, Miss Jane. Seems like I just can't settle down to anything."

Moll was going out to do the marketing, and offered to take Letty along. "We'll get out. We'll walk fast. Reckon that'll do the trick."

"We can't leave Miss Jane all alone," Letty objected.

Jane laughed. "Really, Letty! You'd think I was completely helpless. You go along and have a nice walk. Will and I are going to take a nap." Yawning hugely, Jane carried the baby into her bedchamber with her and closed the door.

Letty crammed her hat on her head and followed Moll out the door. They were not two steps down the street when Moll pushed Letty into the shadow of an alley.

"All right, then, gal. What's got into you? You act like you sat on a beehive."

"Nothing. I just needed a walk."

"Mrs. Tavington might swallow that story, but I'm not so easy to fool. You've been messing with her gowns for days now." She stared down at Letty, pale blue eyes opened wide. "It's that dance, ain't it? You're fixing to go to the African Ball!"

"No!"

"Yes, you are! Are you crazy, honey? There ain't going to be anybody there but whores and trollops and kept women and their keepers. You go to something like that and some officer's going to think you're showing off your wares! You'll be lucky to get out of there without one of 'em having his way with you! Is that it?" she said, very red and angry. "Are you fixing to meet a man there?"

"No! I thought about it, but no—I just like looking at Miss Jane's ball gowns. Can't help thinking about the dance, but I wouldn't know how to get there by myself. It's dangerous on the streets after dark. I know that. I was just thinking."

"Well, you better think straight. You stay home where you're safe. You go to a place like that, and the next thing we know somebody'll snatch you off the street and sell you to a whorehouse. Now let's get on to the 'pothecary, and you put that crazy dance out of your head. You hear me?"

Moll was tall and terrible, and Letty answered meekly, "I hear you." She frowned to herself. Everything had just gotten much more complicated.

Going on the errands did help somewhat. She kept her mind on the shop wares, and laughed at the thwarted attempts to cheat Moll. By the time they trudged home, some of her edginess was worn off. They prepared a simple meal out back in the kitchen, and made sure Jane ate her share at the prim little drop-leaf table in the sitting room. Letty felt better for the food herself.

"May I practice my music, now, Miss Jane?" Letty asked, needing a break from stitchery.

"Of course," smiled Jane. The baby was awake and looking about. Letty sat down and dutifully played though scales and exercises, and then through her latest set pieces, taking care about the little details that Miss Jane thought important. When she played the spinet like this, she could sometimes pretend she was a real lady.

Moll had laundry she wanted to finish that day. The baby made a surprising amount of work for such a little person. As usual, she did not want Letty's help. "You don't want to go spoiling your hands. You play pretty on that there spinet. That's the right sort of work for you—playing music and sewing fine seams. You leave the dirty work to me. I'm used to it!" She gathered up her washing and stalked downstairs with an independent air, humming.

-----

It was dark when Tavington reined in at his lodgings. Seth was already asleep in the little room out back he shared with his father. Behind the millinery shop was a small stable, with room enough for Tavington's two chargers and Mrs. Todd's own pony and cart. The chariot and the six carriage horses were boarded at the big stable further down the street, where Seth went every day to tend to them. At the sound of Tavington's footsteps outside, Seth rose and hurried to the stable, wondering if it might be a robber.

"Colonel? You back, sir? You all right?"

A grunt of assent. "Give him a good rub down, Seth. He's had a hard ride." So had Tavington. They had succeeded in saving the garrison of Fort Ninety-Six, but only by evacuating them. The fort, one of their last outposts, was gone now, destroyed as they departed. The area controlled by the King's forces had now shrunk alarmingly.

It was too late to wake the servants and demand a bath. He would have one tomorrow. Now all he wanted was sleep. He hoped he could creep into Jane's bed without disturbing her.

He struck a light, going up the stairs as quietly as he could manage. Once inside the door, he found the nearest candle, and lit it, replacing the glass shade. He would undress here in the sitting room, and worry about his clothes tomorrow. Moll would need to wash his linen anyway. He unfastened his sword and leaned it against the wall. Next, he unbuttoned his coatee, and began to remove it, stretching aching muscles.

The door to the nursery opened, and Moll appeared in a halo of light.

She started at the sight of him. "Colonel! I sure didn't expect to see you back so soon. I thought you was Letty. She oughtn't to stay up so late working."

Tavington stared back at her, not understanding her. "Letty isn't here. She must have gone to bed without waking you."

Moll's face froze. She looked behind her, toward Letty's bed, and felt as if she were falling from a great height. She licked her lips, and told Tavington, "Letty ain't here either, sir."

Instantly alert, Tavington only just managed not to shout. "What do you mean, not here? It's past ten o'clock!"

Moll's eyes were wide. She covered her mouth with a hand, as if afraid to answer him. She choked out, "If she ain't here, she must have gone to the African Ball!"

"What!" 

He dragged Moll over to the settee and forced himself—and his horrified nurserymaid—to speak in whispers. What and where the African Ball was, Letty's moping over ball gowns, her agitated air. Tavington had the whole story in a few minutes. He was fairly horrified himself. _Has the girl gone mad? What was she thinking?_

Moll, fearless Moll, seemed frightened. "You ain't fixing to wake up Mrs. Tavington, are you, Colonel? It would just scare the tar out of her."

"No. We won't wake her. When she next feeds the child, don't say anything. Let her think that Letty is asleep. I'll deal with this."

"Please, Colonel, don't be hard on that poor little gal! She ain't been herself since her Ma died!"

"I know that," Tavington hissed impatiently. What did Moll think he would do, have the girl whipped? On second thought, that probably was the usual practice here. Tavington did not care. He would handle this in his own way.

"Stay here with Mrs. Tavington, Moll, and stay calm! Go back to bed—" 

"No, sir! Can't rightly do that until I know what's happened! Are you going to go get her? She'll be easy to spot. She's wearing that peacock blue gown."

"All right, then. Stay here and stay quiet. Tend to your mistress and don't let anyone disturb her. I'll go find Letty and bring her back her as soon as I can."

He hastily buttoned the coatee and snatched up his sword, barely hearing Moll wish him luck. He was downstairs in an instant and made his way to the stable.

Seth looked up, surprised to see him again. Tavington gave his orders in his crispest voice.

"Get to the carriage and harness the horses. Drive to the Assembly Rooms and have the carriage waiting—not just in front—but a little down the street. I will meet you there. Say nothing of this to _anyone_."

Seth knew his Colonel well enough not to ask questions. As he hurried down the dark street, though, his mind was racing. Why was the Colonel going to the Assembly Hall—and not in his carriage? If he needed the carriage later, it was because he was fetching someone that he didn't want to be seen with walking through the streets after dark. Who would he be fetching from—_the African Ball?_ He came to the obvious conclusion, and swore bitterly. Letty was in trouble for sure!

-----

After all her efforts to go to the ball, Letty was nearly refused admittance. She found a corner in the vestibule to hide her cloak in, and then squared her shoulders, and entered the ballroom with an air of assurance that she did not actually feel.

Near the door, an angry young black woman in yellow silk gave her a shove, nearly knocking her off her ill-fitting slippers. "Get out of here! It's just us black girls tonight! You white whores'll get your turn later!"

"But—"

Her taller adversary, by name Jenny, poked her again. "It's an African Ball, Missy! An _African_ Ball! You deaf?"

"I'm a slave, too! I can't help how I look!"

Jenny peered at her, unconvinced, and shrugged. "Who's your gentleman?"

"Ain't got one," Letty answered sullenly. "I just come to see the dancing and to dress fine."

"You steal those clothes?"

"No." Her conscience pricked her. "Just borrowed for tonight."

"Well, come on in, but you stay away from my man."

"Don't care nothing about your man." Letty slipped by the taller girl, her skirts gathered up, alert for any further attacks.

Even with that unpromising beginning, the ballroom was a fairyland to her. Candles everywhere, and women of every shade dressed like queens. Letty saw no one she knew. There was a table, laden with delicacies, with a silver punchbowl. She wandered along the side of the room, lost in the music, delighted with the dancing. It was just what she had always imagined. She found a chair and got off her pinched feet, eager to watch the astonishing sight.

How lovely the women looked. She had always suspected that clothes made the woman. The women here might be laundresses or maids, or market women or harlots, but in their silk gowns they had the air and grace of born ladies. Many of them were truly beautiful, and wore the clothes well: as if they were only what they deserved. There was a long mirror on the far side of the wall. Letty got up and strolled over to it, wanting to see how she looked herself.

Miss Letty was reflected: a fine lady in a beautiful blue gown. She fluttered her fan, enchanted at the picture she made. She had done her hair as best she could, and it was a little disarranged from the hood of her cloak. She brushed a few stray curls back, and then sighed with satisfaction. _If only Mama could see me now!_

"A fair Venus, indeed," drawled a male voice behind her. "But perhaps—a little out of place, tonight?"

She turned. A pale, hook-nosed officer loomed over her, leering. Letty retreated a few steps until she found herself stopped by the mirror.

"No, sir," she whispered, with a curtsey. "I'm as much a slave as any woman in this room."

"A slave of Love, surely," he smirked. He was a captain, she noted. She had been in an army camp long enough to know one uniform from another. She tried to move sideways, but he leaned against the wall, trapping her with a long arm.

He would not let her get away, but started rattling on, in a way that Letty did not understand. She did not want to understand him. He was making overtures of some sort to her, implying that she could be his for a reasonable price, wondering who her current protector might be. It was very annoying to be wearing these ill-fitting slippers. Ordinarily she would just run away from a man like this.

Other officers approached, smiling. "Don't be so greedy, Peyton," a major admonished her irritating companion. "Let another fellow have a look-in."

Captain Hooknose—no, _Peyton—_stood away reluctantly, and gestured to Letty. 'Miss—I did not quite catch your name, fair one?"

Letty opened her mouth, thought twice, and then declared, "Pamela."

There were hoots of laughter.

Peyton grinned, and presented her. "Miss—Pamela, may I present my _former_ friend, Major Youngblood, and his partners in crime, Captains Petherbridge and Strathairn?"

The men bowed elaborately. Letty curtseyed in her turn, uncomfortably aware that their bows contained a touch of mockery.

Captain Strathairn was a little politer than his fellows. "You are not dancing, Miss Pamela?"

"No one has asked me, sir."

More hoots of laughter, this time directed at Peyton's sloth.

"Well, then, Madam," said Strathairn, with some smugness, "if you would honor me with the next—"

"I would be delighted, sir," Letty answered, speaking as much like a novel as she could manage. It seemed to impress her new admirers favorably. Captain Strathairn gave her his arm, and they proceeded to the dance.

It was very grand and very elegant, but her feet began to ache. Letty suspected she would not be able to stay here long. She had not really expected more. Every minute here increased her chance of discovery at home. There was a tall clock in the room. Cinderella had been allowed to stay until midnight, but Cinderella's fairy godmother must have given her glass slippers that _fit._ Letty thought half past ten would have to do.

"Were you really a slave?" Captain Strathairn asked, with a hint of skepticism.

"I _am _a slave, sir," Letty corrected him. "Like my mother before me. That my master was also my father meant nothing. It is the way of the world."

"It is the way of the world _here_," Strathairn corrected her in his turn. "Your father was a gentleman?"

"Yes, he is. A very rich and great gentleman. A Rice King, in fact. Much good it does me."

"That is infamous!"

She shrugged. She needed to concentrate on the dance to avoid twisting an ankle. Strathairn was considering how best to approach her to make her his mistress. A lovely girl, and so presentable! Perhaps it was a lie, though. She certainly did not look like a black slave, or even like a mulatto. Perhaps she was a lady, enjoying a forbidden escapade. Still, she did not seem that jaded…

The dance ended, and Strathairn noticed that his beautiful companion seemed uncomfortable.

"You are limping! Did I tread upon your feet? Really, I am most—"

"No, it is not your fault. My shoes are a poor fit, I fear."

"Come, you must sit down. Here, let us withdraw—" He led her into an adjoining room and shut the door behind him.

-----

Tavington arrived at the Assembly Room, only slightly out of breath from his run through the dark streets. He tossed his helmet to a waiting servant, and smoothed his hair, looking about the brightly-lit room. _Blue—she's in blue._

Black women in yellow, brown women in pink, a few in cream, in pearl, in silver. Blue! No, too pale. He strode through the room, his smile a grimace at the greetings of fellow officers, his eyes darting into every corner.

There! Peacock blue across the room. She was leaving the dance, she was walking away on an infantry officer's arm. Tavington quickened his pace, apologizing as he pushed his way though the crowd. A pity he could not stop to look about. It was all very exotic, and some of the women were magnificent. Really, had his sister-in-law not been embroiled, he might have thought it an amusing idea—

She was going into another room with the fellow. _Oh, Letty, what are you doing?_ The door shut, and Tavington began to run.

-----

Letty fell into a blessed chair, and Strathairn stood before her, admiring and calculating. How to broach the subject, when he was so unsure of her real identity? Pamela—the name was obviously a false one. Who _was_ she?

He knelt before her and removed the shoe from the poor swollen foot, rubbing the arch discreetly. The girl's eyes widened and she tried to draw back.

"Really, Madam," he murmured, you must allow me the liberty. Permit me to see if you are injured." His fingers traveled over the small foot, trailing up the ankle, kneading the calf, and slipping with a sly caress to the inside of her thigh. Letty stared at him shocked, and pushed her petticoats down in protest.

"Come, now, Miss Pamela," Strathairn coaxed. "You cannot expect a man to buy--if you'll excuse my frankness--a pig in a poke. Allow me to take just measure of your charms."

"Don't, sir!" Letty struggled against him, trying to keep her petticoat down, while her admirer was just as determined to have it up.

"Oh, Miss Pamela," he laughed, "you're a cruel little minx!"

Letty kicked at him--missed--and fell out of the chair, landing squarely on her bottom, much to Strathairn's amusement. He gripped her behind her knees, pushing her legs apart, panting as he tried to hold her fast, while struggling with the heavy skirts.

And the door slammed open and was instantly slammed shut again. Strathairn wondered if his friends were there to spoil the fun, but he did not hear Peyton's well-known, nasal tones. Instead, a tall, black-haired colonel was advancing on him, murder in his eyes.

"Don't force me to kill you, Captain. Remove you hands from that lady _at once!_"

Good God! It was Tavington! Everyone knew the fellow was a madman. What rotten luck to find himself caught between The Butcher and the innocent-eyed siren who was obviously his mistress. Strathairn rocked back on his heels and got to his feet warily, ready to fight for his life.

Trying to sound casual, he shrugged. "Had no idea I was poaching, Colonel. The lady gave no particulars. 'Pamela,' indeed. I should have known she was too good to be true."

Tavington stood toe to toe before him, his eyes a hot blue glare. "You know nothing, sir! I want your word of honor that you will say nothing of my presence here, and nothing about what you may imagine you know about this lady."

"If it is a matter of the lady's honor, of course—"

"Because if I find you've blabbed, I'll put a bullet in your head."

"Dueling is forbidden—"

"I don't care. I'll put a bullet in your head anyway. Do I have your word?"

Strathairn managed a rusty laugh. "Yes. I daresay that would be the wisest course."

"Good. Stay here until we're gone. And say _nothing_—nothing at all."

Strathairn stiffened. "I already gave my word of honor, _sir!"_ He gave Letty an ironic bow. "I hope you found the evening amusing, Madam."

Letty could not say anything, frozen with fear as she was. _Caught._ By the Colonel himself! _Oh, what will he do? What will he do? Will he whip me? Will he sell me?_

"Put that shoe back on!" Tavington snapped at her.

She groped for the shoe, and tried, fumbling. Her foot was swollen, but somehow she managed to stuff the foot in, wincing at the pain.

"Now come along!"

Her arm was seized, and she was pulled up and out of the room; not back into the ballroom, but through another door into a passageway.

"My cloak!" she whimpered. "I left it at the front door!"

"A good idea," agreed Tavington. "Avert your face. We'll make our way to the entrance, muffle you in your cloak and I'll bundle you into the carriage. Seth is waiting outside."

"Seth knows?"

"I imagine he has deduced who of our household might have been absurd enough to dress in a peacock blue gown and attend this farrago! Who else—Moll? Silas?"

"Does Miss Jane know?" she whispered, on the verge of tears.

The hall opened out toward the entryway. Letty saw her cloak and hobbled over to it. Snatching it from her, Tavington wrapped her up and pulled the hood down low over her face. He retrieved his helmet and fastened it, muttering his answer.

"No! She does _not_ know, and I don't intend to distress her with news of what a flibbertigibbet you are! Not a word from you! We're going to walk out of here quietly and try to attract no particular notice. Do as I say and perhaps we can keep your behavior a secret!"

Officers and their women loitered outside, escaping the stuffiness of the ballroom. Tavington ignored them all, a frightened Letty on his arm. He searched the street for the waiting carriage. _There! Good lad, Seth!_

It was the work of a moment for Seth to leap down, open the door, and lower the steps. Tavington handed Letty in, and jumped in beside her. "Drive on at once, but without ceremony," he muttered to Seth. "I'm trying to be discreet. Stop the carriage _behind_ the shop."

Seth nodded, and climbed back into the driver's seat. With a flick of the reins, they were in motion, on the way home.

Letty sobbed softly, waiting for the blow to fall. She held her handkerchief to her eyes, peeking at her master to see what his expression might have in store for her. He looked angry, but not violent. He looked more exasperated that anything else.

"Letty." He said flatly. "What am I to do with you?"

The tears flowed afresh. "Whip me, Colonel, but please don't sell me! I'm sorry! I'll never do it again!"

"What possessed you to do something so foolish anyway? I thought you were a sensible girl."

Rebellion bubbled up. "I just wanted—just _once_—to dress pretty and pretend to be a lady. Just _once_! My Mama lived all her life working hard and she never had a dress better than a rag. Just once I wanted to wear silk and dance with gentlemen. Just _once!_ Is that too much to want?"

Ordinarily, Tavington would have told a servant that yes, it was too much. Letty, however, was a special case. She was a gentleman's daughter and also the daughter of the woman who had saved Tavington's life. She was, in fact, his sister-in-law. How could he reconcile the customs of this colony with the demands of her birth and his honor? It was a puzzlement, certainly.

"Stop blubbering, you silly girl. No one's going to whip you, and of course we're not going to sell you. You will say nothing of this unfortunate affair to Mrs. Tavington. The less she knows, the better. Moll and Seth know, but they'll hold their tongues. Did any of those other men at the ball harm you?"

"No. I wasn't there very long. I got to dance with Captain Strathairn, and he and his friends said I was pretty, but I could see that they were just laughing at me underneath."

"No Prince Charming at the ball, then, I take it?" His voice betrayed amusement, and just a hint of compassion.

"No," she admitted. "No Prince Charming for me. And my feet hurt something _fierce."_

He smiled briefly. "Perhaps that's why Cinderella left a slipper behind. That would not do for us, though. Mrs. Tavington would certainly wonder if one of hers went missing." He leaned forward, fixing her eyes with his.

"Now listen to me. Never leave our lodgings again without permission. Do I have your promise?"

"Yes, Colonel." Her sweet voice was very small, and Tavington thought of Jane and the first unhappy night of his marriage. His shook his head, not wanting to remember that fiasco.

"Good. You will find your feet sufficient punishment for the next day or two, I imagine. You have dressed as a lady and been taken for one. That should satisfy your curiosity for a little while, I hope."

She nodded humbly, and Tavington decided to say nothing more. Seth stopped the carriage behind the millinery shop. Tavington helped Letty out, and sent Seth on his way with a quiet word of commendation and a handful of coins. The poor girl was really limping now, and he helped her climb the steps, trying to make the ascent as noiseless as possible. It was nearly eleven-thirty.

He opened the door. Moll was still keeping her vigil for them, dozing in the rocking chair under a quilt. A single candle burned in the room. Her eyes opened as they entered, and were filled with inexpressible relief.

She grabbed at Letty, whispering recriminations. "You bad girl! Why'd you run off, when I told you it was a crazy idea? All you all right? Is the dress tore?"

"Moll," Tavington interposed wearily. "She and the gown are fine. Go to your room and help her out of those clothes. Don't say anything more about it. I've already settled that matter. Here," he reached into a pocket and gave her a guinea. "This is for your silence, and your good sense and honesty tonight in telling me what I needed to know to find Letty." He turned to Letty, and raised his brows meaningfully. "No guinea for you, my dear. I'm sure you know why."

Letty gulped and curtsied, escaping into the nursery without a word. Moll blew out a breath, and gave him her version of a curtsey as well. "You're a good man, Colonel. I always said so."

Tavington snorted. "You may be the only one in the world of that opinion, Moll. Off to bed with you."

-----

**Notes: **There really was an African Ball given for slave women by British officers, and it did indeed scandalize all Charleston.

A chariot in the 18th century was the smallest and lightest of the closed carriages. It had a single bench seat inside, instead of the two seats facing each other as in larger carriages. It was pretty much designed to carry two people comfortably. Three would have been a squeeze.

**Next—Chapter 24: A Splendid Opportunity**


	24. A Splendid Opportunity

**Chapter 24: A Splendid Opportunity**

The letter came with a bundle of correspondence. It was sorted with the rest, and duly delivered to Tavington. He read it at headquarters, and then read it again. His heart leaped violently: so violently that he was forced to get up, go out, and walk up and down the street a few times. He returned to the map room at Headquarters, and read the letter once more. A fierce, triumphant smile spread across his face. He left immediately. Jane must hear this news.

"A letter from my mother, with a letter from Horse Guards attached." He was positively beaming. Jane had never seen such a smile on his face.

"Your mother is well, I trust."

"Mamma? Oh, perfectly well. I thank you. She has some marvelous news, Jane." He took out the letter, and read it again, savoring the message.

Jane waited, and then, growing impatient, said, "Well? Is it a state secret?"

Tavington tossed the letter onto the table, and took Jane by the shoulders, twirling her about in an impromptu victory dance. She laughed and protested. The baby, until now undisturbed in his cradle, took note of his parents' strange antics and began making noises. Jane broke away and hurried over to him. She turned, child in her arms, and asked again, in laughing exasperation, "Well, what is it? I am all suspense."

"My dear Jane--" Tavington began, aglow with the pleasure of it. "My dear Jane, through a connection we had despaired of, I have been granted a new command. You are looking at the new colonel of the Third Dragoon Guards! A full colonelcy at last!"

Jane could understand his pleasure in having a command of his own again, and observed, "A promotion! That is a fine thing."

"Jane," Tavington said patiently, "This is one of the most distinguished regiments in the army! 'The Prince of Wales' Own!'"

"When does the regiment arrive?"

"Jane!" Amused and provoked by her obtuseness, he slapped the wall impatiently. "The regiment is in London. It is _I_ who am joining _it_. We are for England, as soon as may be!"

"England!" her cry of astonishment was echoed by little Will. His grey-blue eyes were wide, and Jane cooed the baby back into complacency. The tiny eyelids drooped, and Jane laid him carefully back in the cradle. More softly, she continued her questions. "We will be leaving soon, you say?"

"As soon as I can secure passage for us. This is a splendid opportunity. I knew my mother's connections would prove useful some day. Better late that never!" He walked around the room, unable to calm himself. "Is there any hope of tea?"

Jane immediately called for Letty, who glided in, glided out, and returned shortly with the tea things. Jane looked anxiously after her retreating figure. "I must speak to Letty. This will be such a change for her."

She poured the tea and handed the cup to her husband.

"I daresay," Tavington grunted, eyes narrowed in thought. "One would think so." He had been thinking for some time about Letty. He prided himself on paying his debts, and he owed the pretty creature a great deal. She had been a party to saving his life; her mother had died defending his wife and child; and she had been cruelly oppressed by Jane's father, whom Tavington loathed. Jane would need her when transplanted to a strange land. He had been playing with a most radical notion for some time, and had developed it more since the escapade of the African Ball. Now he would approach Jane with it. "She'll be a free woman in England, you know…"

Jane lowered her cup, eyes wide. "Free! I mean—how wonderful…." Her voice trailed off, and she looked at Tavington in horror. "She could leave me!"

Tavington assumed a properly sympathetic expression. _Just the reaction I'd hoped for. _"Well, of course she could, my dear, though if you paid her sufficient wages she might stay for some time. Of course, there _is_ a way to keep her bound to you forever—"

His wife was hanging on his words, obviously terrified at the possibility of losing one so dear to her. Tavington hated toying with her feelings, but in this case it was unavoidable. It was a dreadful thing to be brought up so blind to the realities of one's life. He would have to bear the storm that was certain to result in his next words. "A _servant_ is bound only by wages, and may leave when it is convenient, but a _sister_ is always a sister."

Jane set her cup down, looking at him as if he had spoken Greek. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. She sat there, breathing quickly, and swallowed. She licked her lips, and whispered, "A _sister_?"

"Come, my dear," Tavington urged her, tired of South Carolina, its Slave Code, and all its unsavory ways. "You must know perfectly well that your dear little Letty is your sister. Your father as much as boasted of it to me one night over his wine. He went on at some length about his relations with poor Biddy, talking about her in such crude--"

"Oh, don't!" Jane cried, nearly weeping. "Don't say anything about Biddy! If you knew how it hurts me that she's gone!"

He was determined to press the matter. "All the more reason that her daughter should receive just treatment, Jane. Letty is a gentleman's daughter. A natural daughter, true, but a gentleman's daughter all the same. In England, an acknowledged natural child would be brought up accordingly. Letty would most probably have been sent to school, educated as becomes a lady, had some money settled on her to secure her future. Instead, her father here enslaved her, made her work as a house servant, never troubled himself to protect her from---"

"Stop!" Jane was more and more distressed. "I can't listen to this! It's so impossible! Letty is an octoroon! Letty is a quarter Cherokee! Letty is a slave! She _can't_ be my sister!" Starting up, Jane ran into their bedroom and slammed the door. Tavington followed, grimly intent on having it out. He saw Letty standing wide-eyed by the staircase. He gave her a little ironic smile, and a nod. Her mouth opened, too, just like Jane's, and he was briefly amused at the unexpected resemblance.

Well, he would pay his debt, and this girl would be acknowledged as his sister-in-law. Tavington loved his sisters, and the thought of them treated as this girl had been disgusted him. It would be a pleasant piece of revenge to raise someone that Jane's father had so kept down. He wished he could see the man's face when he heard of it.

"Never fear, Letty," he said gravely, seeing the girl's fright and bewilderment. "I shall sort out the matter. We were just discussing our departure to England. I have received a new appointment there, and we will be going very soon. Of course we wish you to come with us."

"To England?" Letty whispered.

"Yes, yes, to England, where, as I explained to Jane, you will be a free woman."

The girl seemed to bloom at his words, an expression of unbearable longing making her lovely face radiant. "Free!"

Well, Tavington admitted to himself, it was an oversimplification. Lord Mansfield's ruling on the case of an escaped slave in England a few years ago had seemed to set a precedent to that effect. No one who mattered to Tavington would think other than he did, however. "Yes, free, my dear. And I was just speaking with---Jane—about how much your situation would change once we leave South Carolina." He paused, wanting to put it simply enough. "You will find England a very different place. Now, if you will excuse me. I need to speak a little more with my wife."

Letty watched him disappear into his bedchamber, and heard him speaking quietly and firmly to Miss Jane. What she had overheard had shocked her deeply. Yes, of course she knew that the Old Master was her father. Mama had told her that long ago, but she had always understood how little that meant. The Old Master had let her be raised in the nursery with Miss Jane, and had never given her heavy work. He had even let her be baptized as a little girl, a very unusual favor for a slave. Nonetheless, she had always known she was nothing but a slave to him. If Miss Jane had fallen sick and died, Letty would have belonged to the Old Master, and he would not have hesitated to sell her on the auction block in Charlestown, if there was profit to be made from it.

But the Colonel had come right out and talked to Miss Jane about Letty being her sister! She hoped Miss Jane would not be angry with her or punish her. Miss Jane was the most important person in her life, and her goodwill was everything in the world to Letty.

She sat down by the cradle, tucking in the sleeping William Francis. The way the Colonel talked, this little baby might someday call her Aunt Letty! She tried to imagine what it would be like to sail away to a land where she would be free. She might actually wear a beautiful ball gown again, and dance in public with gentlemen who would not sneer at her. It seemed an impossible dream. She had read the books with Miss Jane, and she could picture a kind of England in her mind: a green, cool place with the great city of London, a city bigger than Charlestown; a place where Jenny Peace and Polly Suckling happily went to Mrs. Teachum's school; a place where the King lived, a great gold crown on his head, and with palaces full of Princes and Princesses; a place where a pretty white servant like Pamela could marry a gentleman; a place where half the men, it seemed, wrote poetry that she had read along with Miss Jane on those long, dreamy evenings. What she could not picture there, however, was herself, Letty, among those sights—and certainly not as the sister of her own mistress.

----- 

Tavington closed the door behind him, and sat on the edge of the bed. Jane was lying on her stomach, her face buried in a pillow. Her shoulders were shaking, but she did not appear to be weeping. Rather, she seemed to be in shock, as it Tavington had breached every standard of decent behavior, and inflicted a grievous wound

"Jane."

She did not turn, but quieted a little. He heard her draw a deep, ragged breath.

"Listen to me. I cannot imagine how difficult it is for you to overcome the attitudes and customs of your birthplace, but so it must be. You are an Englishwoman. You will be living in England." He repeated what he had said to Letty. "You will find England very different than South Carolina."

She was listening, at least.

"I _know_ that you love Letty. How can you condemn her to a life of misery and servitude? Think of all we owe to her—and to her mother. No, don't start weeping again. This is too serious a matter. Your sister has been gravely wronged by your father. He has treated her even worse than he treated you. You cannot allow yourself to be governed by his prejudices and small-mindedness. Think for yourself, rationally and independently, about Letty's situation. Should she not have her birthright? You must understand how she longs for it." _I certainly can,_ he thought. _The events of the past week have made it starkly apparent._

Jane's voice was hoarse, and muffled by the pillow.

"It's so strange—so unheard of!"

Impatiently, Tavington snapped, "It's only unheard of in the southern colonies, which is really a rather small place in the grand scheme of things!" He mastered himself. "And really, think how much more pleasant it will be to have Letty as a sister. She will live with us and be your companion as she has always been, but it will be in your power to treat her with even greater kindness. You have told me yourself how you like to see her dressed well."

Jane made a little noise of grudging agreement.

"Well, in England you can indulge yourself without any reference to the ridiculous Slave Code. Letty can sit with you, be your public companion, and thus be a better support for you in your future life in England." An unpleasant realization crossed his mind. "She can read, can she not?"

Jane turned around then, and lay listlessly on her side, appearing exhausted from the sudden onslaught of new ideas. "Oh yes, quite well. When Miss Gilpin was teaching me, Letty often overheard the lessons, and sometimes we played school, and she learned to write, too." She sighed. "I suppose I've always known, underneath it all, that Papa was also her father. She's always been so important to me, and we were closer than I would imagine people consider proper for mistress and slave." She bit her lip, and then confessed. "After Miss Gilpin was gone, and we were in Charlestown, where she slept in my room, we would read and talk all night long. And—" she glanced up at him uneasily. "—that's when I started teaching her to play the spinet."

Tavington actually laughed. _So that was how it happened_. "Very nicely, too; though she will never equal you there, my dear Jane."

"I was afraid you would be angry."

He did not comprehend her immediately. Then—"Angry at you for teaching her? No, not at all. I am glad that my—" he enunciated the words clearly—"_sister-in-law_ has something of an education. Our voyage will last some time. We can help her become accustomed to her new role, and encourage her to speak as she should."

"I think Letty knows how to speak properly. It's just that she wouldn't have wanted to seem—above herself. It might have caused trouble for her."

"Very well." He took off his boots, and lay down beside Jane, putting a comforting arm around her. "I know, Jane, that this will be a great change for you, but in the end, it will be for the best. Both you and she will be the happier for it."

"Please—give me some time to get used to the idea. It still sounds so outlandish to me."

"Not too much time. I must be finding us a ship soon."

She laid her head against his shoulder. "So you are saying that the minute she steps onto the ship, we should start treating her as a lady?"

"Well—I think we might start practicing a little here at home. But yes, when she embarks, it will not be as Letty, slave to Mrs Tavington, but as Miss Laeticia Rutledge!"

-----

Jane was still struggling with the idea of accepting Letty as a sister, but there were many other decisions to made before their departure.

When she left South Carolina, she would be leaving forever, and leaving behind everything she had known. It had been her dream for years; but now, confronted with her dream's imminent realization, it occurred to her that she would be very much alone, but for her husband and Letty. Letters might come on occasion, to keep her apprised of events on this side of the great gulf of Ocean, but she would have no friends or family to call upon. William promised her the friendship of his sisters, but they were an unknown quality.

The baby wriggled in her lap, and she watched Moll going through a crate of clothing.

A few days after they had called on her father, the crate had arrived, filled with all of Jane's possessions from Cedar Hill and the townhouse that she had not been able to take with her on her journey north. A tactful note from Aunt Alice was enclosed, and Jane was finally forced to revise her opinion of that quiet little woman. It was very kindly thought of, indeed. The bulk of the contents consisted of clothing. Most of if was old, but some of it was in good condition, and could be made over, or cut up for other garments.

Much of it also needed a good laundering. Moll was sorting through the garments, humming a tuneless song. No, it was not quite humming, but a strange fluting, puffed out on her breath as she worked. Jane was used to the sound, unmusical as it was, and used to Moll and her hearty ways. She was a good soul, and so very brave and reliable. Little Will knew her and seemed content to be held by her…

"Moll, there is something I should speak to you about."

Moll looked up, still busily folding. "Yes, ma'am?"

"It seems that Colonel Tavington has received a new appointment." She paused, thinking through what to say. "He has been given command of a regiment in England, and it appears we will be leaving Charlestown quite soon."

The petticoats were not dropped, but clutched instead in an impulse of surprise. Moll looked blankly at her, and then panicked.

Her mouth arranged itself in a semblance of a smile. With an effort, she rallied, and said, "I'm right glad for you, ma'am. The Colonel ought to be rewarded for all he's gone through in this here war. You reckon you'll be gone in a month or two?" She tried not to show how upset she was by the news. This place with the Tavingtons had been the first piece of real luck she had had since the start of the war. She and Bob Royston had built up a nice little place in the first few years of their marriage, but with the war, everything had gone wrong: they had been driven out of the county, their little boy had died, they had joined up with the Dragoons, and then the rebels got Royston too. She was getting on, too: she was over thirty now, and what chance did she have to find a good man and settle down in the middle of a war? A camp was no place to raise a baby. She'd seen for herself what the mothers suffered, and she wanted no part of it.

What would she do if Colonel Tavington left? Who would give her a place? She had no money, no family, and had nothing but hard work and hunger to look forward to. She was so frightened at the sudden vision of her future that she did not hear what Jane said to her at first.

"We—I mean I—I was hoping that you might consider traveling with us to England. Little Will needs a nurse we can trust, and he is used to you. I can guess what you're thinking. The voyage will be long and hard, but remember that when it is over, we shall all be in a land at peace. Do consider it, Moll. I shall be so alone in England—"

"Yes."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Yes, ma'am. I'd be proud to go with you." It had taken only a split second to make her decision. In that moment, a host of memories flashed before her: Royston, his image already fading; Baby Charlie's unmarked grave; her father whittling outside a tiny log cabin while a little Moll, red braids bobbing, ran through the dappled light of the dark forest; her mother's telling her of her voyage from England as they boiled soap. All her work, all Royston's work, all her parents' work: years of work, and nothing to show for it. And now she was the last of them, with only Mrs. Tavington's good will between her and poverty.

Jane was surprised at Moll's instant agreement. Pleased, of course, but uneasy, wondering how Moll would react to her next piece of news.

"Before you make any promises, Moll, there is something you should know. Letty will be coming with us, of course, but her circumstances will be altered." Moll did not understand what was meant, and waited for an explanation. Jane took a deep breath, and danced around the matter a little.

"Do you remember, when we first met, how you took Letty for my sister?"

"Well--yes, ma'am." Moll remembered it perfectly. Of course she had taken Letty for Mrs. Tavington's sister when it was plain as the nose on your face that Letty _was_ Mrs. Tavington's sister.

"Well—Letty really _is_ my sister, and Colonel Tavington does not like it that a gentleman's daughter should be a slave. They don't own slaves in England, you know. He wants her to travel to England with us as my sister, and as a---lady."

Not quite understanding the difficulty, Moll waited for more information. Jane felt she must be blunt.

"Will you be uncomfortable being a servant in a household where Letty is treated as a lady?"

Moll considered this. Ordinarily it might seem shocking, but she was already used to the idea that Letty was her mistress' sister. Letty had a lady's education: she could read and write and cipher some, and she could do fine needlework and play on the spinet like other fine ladies. She was a pretty little thing, too, and looked as much a lady as any of them. Moll did not deceive herself that she was in any way Letty's equal when it came to manners or learning. All she wanted was a good, safe place with good people. And it would break her heart to bid farewell to that little boy…

"No, ma'am, I can get used to that. I can call her 'Miss Letty,' if that's the way you want it. Wouldn't be right for me to look down on her for being a slave. My own mother—well, she come over more'n fifty years ago, and her indenture was sold to a real bad man. He was only supposed to keep her for seven years, but there was always something—some money he made out she owed him—or some such trick. She was in his house for nigh on ten years, and was no better'n a slave there herself. In the end she had to run away with my Pa. No, ma'am, if you want to call your sister by her right name, it ain't for me to make a fuss. I'm mighty happy here, and I'd just as soon go along with you all."

She looked down and saw that she had wrinkled the petticoats, wringing her hands in her fright. They would have to ironed all over again. It was a small matter. Mrs. Tavington was keeping her on. It was the best opportunity she was ever going to have, and she'd curtsey to the Devil and call him 'sir' before she'd let it slip from her grasp.

-----

Tavington broke the matter to Seth himself, after calling in at the menservants' quarters to see how Silas was faring. The old man was not recovering as he ought. _Martin's last victim_, he reflected, sorry that he had not killed his enemy earlier. His womenfolk and Mrs. Todd's maid were taking good care of Silas, but Tavington suspected he would not last more than a month at most. After chatting for a little while, and making a present of some good rum for the old man to enjoy, Tavington took Seth aside to discuss his plans.

"No, sir, Colonel. You know I can't go and leave him—" Seth jerked his head toward his father, resting on the narrow bed. "'Sides, I got things to tend to here'bouts."

"I quite understand. I am sorry you cannot travel with us, but I did not expect you to leave your old father behind. Before I go, of course, I want to see that the two of you are provided for. In England, faithful old servants like your father are pensioned off. At the very least, I shall give you both your freedom—"

Seth looked up, eyes alight. "Thank you, Colonel!"

Tavington smiled briefly, unaccustomed to so much gratitude. Besides, he had more to say. "Freedom is all very well, but hardly suffices. I am more concerned that you have a way to make your living when we are gone. An annuity is a possibility—"

"Beg pardon, Colonel?"

"A sum of money to be paid to you regularly. But I thought instead to give you the carriage and a pair of horses. You could hire yourself out as a hack driver and thus have a steady income that might well be better—"

Seth was grinning like the eternal Sun.

Tavington raised a brow. "I take it that this is agreeable to you?"

"Yes, sir!"

_Really, it is a very pleasant thing to make honest servants happy._ It would be a waste of time and money to try to transport the carriage and horses. It took weeks for horses to recover from a long voyage, and he was impatient to be home. He had already made his plans. Once ashore, he would hire a hack chaise to take them to London. There he would be at leisure to order the latest fashion in carriages and scout out a first-rate team and driver. It would be unattractively tight-fisted to haggle over the sum that the outmoded chariot would bring, and it eased his conscience in the bargain to make the young man the present.

Feeling even better about his generosity, he did more. "Think over which of the horses you prefer. You shall have your choice of them."

"Thank you, Colonel! Thank you! I can't wait to tell Pappy! Two horses! I never reckoned I'd have this kind of luck!"

"Yes—well—you're a good fellow, Seth. We'll take care of the manumission tomorrow—but understand that I expect you to remain in my service until the day I leave."

Seth nodded, still exulting. It appeared to Tavington that he had understood what he said, and so he left; while Seth, still glowing, ran to his father to tell him the great news.

-----

Bordon had taken the last trick and was smiling quietly. Tavington was glad to be his partner at whist. They were winning consistently tonight—an uncommon run of luck for Tavington. A few extra guineas in one's purse was always pleasant.

"Shall we have another rubber?" asked Bordon.

"Not I," decided Tavington. "It's growing late, and I would like to be home by ten." He waved a servant over for another glass of brandy. The house, one of the establishments that had sprung up to accommodate the influx of soldiers, catered to the officer trade, and was part gaming house, part brothel. It was one of the best of them, in Tavington's opinion. The service was acceptable, the girls pretty to look at and not unduly loud, and while the menu was limited, the food and wine were good.

Their less fortunate opponents took themselves off to the girls, good-naturedly decrying Bordon's skill at cards. Bordon gave Tavington a keen look, and remarked, "I hear we are to lose your services presently."

"Yes. A great stroke of good fortune. A guards regiment, and in London! I never expected such an appointment."

"I am very happy for you."

"And what of you, Bordon? Will you stay here and wait for the Crown's rewards?" Tactfully, Tavington said nothing of his friend's injuries. Bordon's arm was not healing well. He described an unpleasant, tingling sensation, and had difficult in achieving the needed range of motion for a soldier. The surgeons had proclaimed it "nerve damage." There was little likelihood that he would ever be fit enough to engage in combat again.

"We both know that the rewards for this war will be slim—or nonexistent. You know my opinion of the Virginia strategy."

"Indeed. And I share it. One hardly knows what to make of the dispatches. Cornwallis is carrying all before him—but his army is constantly shrinking, and the rebels keep drawing him on. I fear a disaster in the making, and I do not want my name associated with it. As much as I hated it, perhaps my wounds were providential."

"Perhaps." Bordon grimaced. "While I would not go so far myself, I too am glad to be in Charlestown in comparative safety. Military glory is all very well when one is younger, but I have a wife and two children and I want very much to see them again."

"What have you decided to do after the war?"

"Well, it's obvious that my military career is over. No," he said, shaking his head. "I am not afraid of the truth. I plan to stay here as long as possible, drawing my pay, but I've had my share of adventure, and would welcome a change."

"Will you try planting? You were interested in the West Indies."

"I think—not." Bordon looked out the window, studying the harbor, partly visible from the gaming room. "There's money to be made in sugar, no doubt, but it means gambling with one's own life and the lives of one's family. We've both seen what fever and heat can do. And I've decided that I'm not the stuff of which slave drivers are made. I would not want my son to witness such things and learn to be a slave driver as well. No. I've thought it through. It's time to go home."

"To England?" Tavington felt a rush of pleasure. Perhaps he could see Bordon again, if they were both in England.

"Yes, back home to Berkshire. I have my savings and a little inheritance; and Harriet has a bit of money from her family. Altogether we should live quite comfortably, if not grandly."

"You would not want to be idle, I think. Will you attempt the history of the campaign?"

"Don't laugh. Someone must do it. Perhaps I _shall_ do a bit of writing. And I am determined to have an occupation. I shall take orders."

Tavington was astonished. "You will become a clergyman?"

"Why not? I already have my degree. I shall see the bishop and be ordained as soon as I return. Perhaps my uncle can find me a living somewhere. I don't ask much: a curacy in the country would do. After my experience with chaplains in the army, I've decided I could hardly do worse than they. Perhaps better."

:"I have no doubt you would be an excellent clergyman. It's just—such a change."

Bordon put his cards away, and shrugged. "Life would be a dull thing, if we decided at twenty how we would spend the rest of our days. This will be something new."

"Do you think Mrs. Bordon will like being a clergyman's wife?"

"Yes, I rather think she would. Or at least I think Harriet would like seeing a bit more of me than she has in the past few years, anyway."

Tavington finished his drink and rose. He had a pressing appointment tonight. A chance meeting with his one-time mistress, pretty Nan Haskins, had revealed that she was soon to be married to a sergeant. Tavington had wished her joy, but made plain that he would like to bid her a farewell in a place more private that the street.

He left Bordon to the pleasures of the house, forbearing to laugh tonight at his friend's cautious use of the beribboned sheepskin prophylactic he scrupulously washed after every use. Bordon never seemed put out at Tavington's jokes, but smugly said that he preferred to remain one of the half of the army that was _not_ poxed. "And hardly an attractive gift to take home, I think."

"No, indeed."

-----

Nan had a little garret room above a wigmaker. She had told Tavington not to knock and awaken her landlady, but to allow her to let him in the back door at nine o'clock. The shop he found without trouble, and the door opened for him as soon as he made his way through the little vegetable garden behind_. She must have been looking for me_, he thought, pleased.

Hurriedly, she showed him in, asking him to walk softly on the narrow, squeaking stairs. "I oughtn't to do this, Colonel. We'll have to be mighty quiet."

He nuzzled her tiny ear, and murmured. "Silent as the tomb, dear Nan." They passed the bedchambers above, and went up the next flight of steps to the garret. It was a tiny room, with a small bed, and walls that slanted in on either side of the single casement window. Nan silently shut the door behind them and then flung herself at Tavington, covering his face with kisses.

He clutched at her, overwhelmed with excitement. Hunger, desperate hunger cancelled thought and reason. He needed a woman, and Nan was here and ready. Better to satisfy his desires now than plague poor Jane, who still needed weeks of recovery before she could resume her wifely duties.

Nan was as eager as he, her eyes sparkling with merriment as she fumbled with his buttons. "Hurry!" she urged, smothering a laugh as he tried to kiss her. "Later!"

His coatee and waistcoat were off, and he helped her in his turn, unfastening her plain cotton gown and helping her unknot her petticoat ties. When she began unlacing her stays, he grunted with impatience, and lifted her in his arms to take her as she was. She kicked her strong legs playfully, letting him lay her on the bed.

Which squeaked, most horribly. She made a face, and drew up her shift invitingly. Feeling that his breeches were entirely too tight, Tavington nearly ripped the buttons from them in his impatience.

Nan's voice was smoky with desire. "You're a fine, upstanding man, Colonel. As always."

With a sharp laugh, Tavington lowered himself onto her, and the bed complained alarmingly. "Not made for two, it seems," he whispered.

In revenge, she clawed his shirt up and dug her nails into his back. Tavington reared back, lifting her legs around him, and eased into her slowly, amused at her quivering, impatient rage.

"Now!" she growled. "'Tis not gentlemanly to tease a poor girl."

"Patience is a virtue, my dear."

"Oh Lord, sir! Faster!"

His hips slammed into her in a mad hammering. There was no squeaking bed, no suspicious landlady, nothing but the woman beneath him, whose hand grabbed at his flanks, pushing him in, in, in…

It would be so easy to surrender to it, so easy for it to be over in seconds. Tavington, with a fierce effort, controlled himself, taking his time, savoring the pleasure and taking care that the woman underneath him would remember him fondly. He had always liked Nan, anyway, and liked her more than ever at the moment. She deserved his best. What little thought he was capable of channeled into remembering just how she liked being touched--yes, that was it. A little longer, and she began thrashing, clutching at him spasmodically. No need to wait any longer--no--faster, now. Another moment, and he gave a deep, long groan of relief.

He lay there, pleasantly dazed, and croaked, "I should be on my way."

"Oh, rest a little, Colonel. No need for you to run off."

Very carefully, he rolled away, remembering that the bed was narrow. He stretched out beside her, letting her curl up against him and stroke his chest. "Well, certainly not before I give you your wedding present," he mumbled, trying not to fall asleep. This was certainly very comfortable...

"You brought me a present! Where is it?" She giggled, and her hand stroked lower. "Is this what you mean?"

"Saucy wench." He sat up and reached over the side of the bed for his discarded waistcoat. From the pocket he drew out a little necklace. Dangling it before an enchanted Nan, he declared, smirking, "With my compliments on your impending vows."

"Oh! How pretty!" It was a heart carved from rock crystal, mounted in gold, with a thin gold chain. Nan fastened it around her neck at once. "I ain't never seen finer!" She thanked him with a hearty kiss. "I'll wear it to be married in!"

Tavington found the idea of Nan wearing his necklace to her wedding rather amusing. "I do wish you and Sergeant Welburn every happiness." On impulse, he retrieved some of his gaming winnings from another pocket. "Look here. It's a bit of money I came by. Perhaps it will help you get established in your married life."

"Twenty pounds!" she cried. Clapping her hand over her mouth, she whispered. "What I can't do with twenty pounds!" She opened the little pouch, letting the coins clink over her palm in wonder. She took a deep breath, and put them carefully back. Without warning she threw herself on Tavington.

"That's _two_ presents, Colonel. I reckon I should do something to deserve them!"

-----

_How nice to have a wife to come home to._ Tavington ran silently up the steps to his lodgings. Jane was still up, feeding his little son.

"Did you have a pleasant meeting?" she asked, with that milk-drowsy smile she often had on her lips when she nursed William Francis. He settled into the chair opposite her, enjoying the pretty sight.

_Ah, yes, the meeting_. "It went extremely well. Captain Bordon sends his compliments. And—oh! I must tell you. He's taken it into his head to go into the church after the war!"

To his surprise, she did not find it absurd, as he did, but seemed very pleased. "Really! What a good idea! Will he return to England?"

"Yes. We may be reunited there someday, and that would be pleasant indeed."

"Oh, yes! And perhaps I shall finally meet Mrs. Bordon. I feel as if I already know her. I sent off a letter to Miss Gilpin today, to let her know I was coming to England. How pleased she will be!" Will was finished on the right, so she deftly moved him to her left breast, without losing the thread of the conversation. "I spoke to Moll about our journey, and she is quite resolved on accompanying us. She even understood about Letty. It is as if she regards Letty as a lady already."

"Moll is a very sensible woman. I am glad she will be with us. If the French attack, we'll be well defended."

She laughed. Tavington was glad to see her spirits returning. She was looking very much improved, as well. It would be most agreeable when they could resume their relations. _At least another month,_ he reminded himself. _I must be patient._

He told her, "I've decided to free Seth and Silas. By way of pension, I am giving Seth the carriage and two of the horses. He should be able to earn his bread well enough so."

"I should think so, indeed. That is very generous of you."

"You disapprove?"

"No—" She thought, and then repeated, "No. Papa doesn't believe in freeing any of his slaves, but I can see that freeing them after good service would give the others something to look forward to. It might make them work better, even." Will was finished, and gave her an enormous grin of satisfaction. She laughed, and drew Tavington's attention to his son's expression.

"The little villain," he laughed. "Already a gourmet!"

Jane brought the child up to her shoulder, rubbing the small back. The boy responded with a resounding belch that made Tavington laugh again. "He'll need to learn some manners, I daresay!"

The baby was gathered up in his quilt, and Jane took him into the room Letty and Moll shared, where his cradle was kept at night. When she reappeared, she was thoughtful.

"Will you take Letty with you, when you sign the papers for Seth and Silas?"

Tavington had thought about this, and answered, "No. It is important for the men, as they will be staying here, and will need legal documents to protect them. For your sister, the point will be moot. As far as I am concerned, she should never have been considered a slave in the first place. For her, manumission only emphasizes that she was indeed a slave. I would prefer she put that chapter of her life entirely behind her." There was a another reason too. He did not want his intentions about Letty known here in Charlestown before they left. Letty was legally Jane's property now, but if she were free, Rutledge might be able to make trouble, and claim control of her as her father.

Jane blew out a breath. "It is a change indeed. If she is to be truly my sister, I must needs see to her traveling clothes!"

Tavington rose, and took her hands in his affectionately. " And we must make our calls on your lawyer and your bankers, to have your fortune put in order for the voyage, as well. Letters of credit—some coin and banknotes—it must all be arranged. But that is for tomorrow, certainly. You need your rest, my dear. Come along."

"I _am_ a little tired."

"Then let me be your tire-woman, and put you to bed." He kissed her ear playfully. "I shall unlace your stays, brush out your hair, and see that you are entirely comfortable."

Shyly, she kissed him back. "Sometimes you are so nice, William."

"Sometimes!" he repeated, with mock indignation.

"Yes, you are," she softly affirmed. "I confess I very much look forward to the time when I can—be a proper wife again."

He kissed her again, very pleased with her. "And so do I, my Jane; but we must not be in too much haste. I promised never to hurt you again, and I can wait perfectly well until you are completely recovered."

As he shut the door of their bedchamber behind them, he caught her against him, murmuring, "But that does not mean that there are not other ways to amuse you!"

-----

**Next—Chapter 25: Over the Horizon**


	25. Over the Horizon

**Chapter 25: Over the Horizon**

A packet was sailing for England the very next day. Obviously, they were not traveling on it, for there was much to be done before his family could leave. However, Tavington had a duty he had shamefully neglected. He forced himself to sit down at his writing desk and compose the letter that should have been sent over a year ago. If he wrote at once and sent the letter by the packet, it should arrive before he was back in England.

_June 20, 1781_

_Charlestown_

_My dearest mother,_

_I am well, Madam, and hope that you are in equally good health. I received your last, and thank you most earnestly for your maternal solicitude. The situation is exactly what I would wish, for many, many reasons._

Entre nous_, the war is not going well. Cornwallis rashly stripped this colony of his army and has ventured north on a fool's errand. I am glad to be out of it. The year has been spent in hard campaigning in the wilderness among the rudest and most barbarous of rebels. Forgive my dilatory correspondence: I have just returned to Charlestown after a long exile in the Carolina "backcountry," as it is known. I was far from any civilized place for much of the time, and I suffered serious wounds at the Battle of the Cowpens early this year. My convalescence was of many months, and only since May have I been able to leave my bed entirely and resume my duties. Do not be alarmed for me: I am perfectly recovered and you will not find me lamed, crippled, or blinded on my return. I am indeed more fortunate than many of my comrades._

_Much has happened in the past year, and not all of it unpleasant. Wish me joy, my dearest Mother. I am married since last year to a most amiable and accomplished lady. Miss Rutledge made me the happiest of men when she consented to be my wife. She is the daughter of Ashbury Rutledge, one of the so-called Rice Kings of South Carolina: one of the chief gentlemen of the colony, and one who has never soiled himself with rebellion. My wife is his favorite daughter, and the mistress of twenty thousand pounds._

_If her wealth and education were not already enough, my dear Jane has other claims that have bound me to her inexpressibly. Indeed it is no exaggeration to say that I owe her my life._

_Yes--had she not braved every danger and hardship a land at war affords, and come to me as I lay wounded, I do not scruple to say that your son would never have lived to return to his home. I regret to cause you pain by telling you this, but it is past, and no longer to be feared. I was indeed at Death's door when she arrived. Never a lady more an Angel of Mercy than she!_

_She arrived, and thus I was spared to you and to my dear sisters. And there is more. A child was born to us this May past: a son we have named William Francis, partly after myself and partly after our good friend, Francis, Lord Rawdon, who is the child's godfather. The little boy is thriving under his mother's tender care. _

_So you see, dearest Mother, I shall not be returning to you empty-handed, but rich in both material wealth and family affection. In addition to my dear wife and precious son, we shall be accompanied by my wife's half-sister, Miss Laeticia Rutledge—nay, I must remember to call her Miss Rutledge now, for she is her father's only unmarried daughter, since I have stolen away his Jane. While she does not equal her sister in fortune (for Jane's inheritance was from her mother's family), she is a remarkably pretty girl—beautiful, even—and very gentle and good. She accompanied her sister on her errand of mercy, and I am indebted to her as well for her care when I lay wounded._

_When I have set my affairs here in order, dear Mother—which shall be as expeditious a process as possible--I shall take ship for home. Accept my most affectionate, grateful, and filial sentiments; and convey my fondest greetings to my brother and my sisters. I shall soon be amongst you all again! It has been far too long._

_I remain, Madam, your most dutiful and loving son,_

_Wm. Tavington_

It was done, at last, and then Tavington carefully made a fair copy that was fit to be sent, free of the scratches and blots that had accompanied his thoughts. He had girded his loins to write this letter, and was relieved to have it done at last. The lies in it were not the sort Mamma would ever penetrate. Jane _was_ her father's favorite daughter, when one compared her situation with Letty's! The letter implied that Jane was older than Letty, but Tavington decided that was for the best. Letty could easily pass for twenty, and the sordid details of her birth need never be discussed. He would suggest that Letty admit to no more than one and twenty: her marital prospects would be improved. The father's marriage to a young wife on whom he doted, and the changing of his will in favor of heirs male would satisfy the curious as to Letty's lack of fortune. He could not deny she was a natural daughter, if asked, but many people would be too civil to pry. He sighed. It was unlikely that Mamma would be one of the civil ones. Jane and Letty must be carefully prepared prior to their first encounter with Lady Cecily Tavington. That was yet another duty that he had avoided. There would be sufficient time on shipboard to see to it.

In the meantime, it was vital to present Jane and his marriage in the most positive light, if Mamma were ever to accept the situation. Since he had paper and ink before him, he wrote Lucy a letter as well, a straightforward, affectionate letter, free of the high-flown language that Mamma demanded. Lucy had been informed of his marriage last year, but he had not written to her since. Much of what he had written to Mamma he could use in Lucy's letter as well. From what he had last heard from his sister, it was unlikely that either would be showing the other her correspondence.

-----

Traveling was always an expensive business. Jane set to outfitting her party with a will. First there was her own clothing to inventory, and then the box from Aunt Alice to examine in detail, now that Moll had laundered what she could of the contents. And she must consider her companions.

Moll's worldly goods amounted to little: her old musket, powderhorn, and patchbox were her most valuable possessions. She had a good clasp knife, a tinderbox and a sewing housewife in one pocket. Most prized was her eating ware: a little fork and spoon of silver, hinged together at the top, which she polished each day with loving care and kept in her other pocket, along with her sole handkerchief and her comb. Her clothing was what she stood up in. Aside from an old cap she fancied, and a carefully cleaned cambric fichu, she was obviously too big to wear any castoffs of Jane's, so she would need new things.

A neat russet shortgown was chosen, to be worn over a good brown petticoat. It might be summer, but they were going to England, so Jane ordered Moll a warm cloak to be made by a mantua maker recommended by Mrs. Todd. With that good woman's help, Moll would be well provided for with three shifts, three handkerchiefs, two aprons, two new caps, two pockets, two underpetticoats, a fresh and pretty straw hat large enough for Moll's head, and five pairs of stockings. Moll was whimsical in her choice of stockings: green clocked with yellow, and blue clocked with red as well as the modest black and white. Her shoes were a disgrace, and a cobbler was set to work on a stout new pair, as was a staymaker to sew Moll a set of jumps and a new set of stays. Mrs. Todd and her apprentice would be hard put to get Moll's clothes ready in time, but they were well paid for their efforts.

Letty was not much taller than Jane, but fuller in the bust and hips, even though Jane's figure had been considerably enhanced by her confinement. Still, as always, Letty could use quite a bit of Jane's clothing. There were so many things. Jane began making a pile for herself, and then, very consciously, for Letty, dividing up the clothes from the box as evenly as possible. Two very nice shifts would go to Letty, a bed gown, a lace-trimmed cap. The cap delighted Letty, but Jane felt a little guilty. She had never liked that cap, and knew she was not making any sacrifice by giving it to—_her sister._ There was a heavily quilted petticoat in an odd shade of maize yellow that did not appear to go with anything. Jane found it incredibly ugly, and could not understand why she had bought such an item, but Letty seized upon it, saying that it would be warm in the winter, and would look very good with a brown polonaise.

Letty acquired more things. There were handkerchiefs (two trimmed with lace), more caps, a fichu, and an underpetticoat: all of which were pronounced suitable even for a newly-made lady, after Moll's Herculean labors with soap and water and iron. A pretty and simple gown of blue linen damask could be altered to fit her, and would do for wear at home. They would all be sewing until the day they left—and after.

The box was full of all sorts of clothes, and Jane and Letty puzzled over them. With a funereal rustle, an old black mourning gown and an assortment of black ribbons were drawn from the box. Jane had worn mourning a few years back when a great uncle had died. An old periwinkle blue gown recalled a visit from Jane's elderly Cousin Louisa Cotesworth, who had made Jane hold her horrible little lapdog. The stain was still visible.

"I don't know why I kept it," Jane wondered. "It's too small to fit me now, anyway, and it would never have fit you."

"It's good silk, though," said Letty. "This whole back here is as good as new. We could cut it up and make the baby a fancy quilt."

"Not today, but sometime," Jane agreed.

Jane found an old pair of dancing slippers, and looked at Letty to see if she wanted them.

"I don't reckon so, honey." Letty shook her head, and blushed. "Your shoes don't fit me."

"Well," Jane replied, without the slightest suspicion. "We must see to that, too."

There were other odd items, among them an evening manteau of creamy satin. Jane placed it on Letty's pile immediately. Jane had two others, but this was a very nice garment, she reflected, suitable for the most refined parties. She added a pair of embroidered pockets that she had forgotten she even owned.

She took a breath. There was something else she wanted to give Letty: something that would make it clear that she considered Letty truly her sister.

"I'll be back directly."

Her jewelry box was fairly large. At every birthday, from the time she turned twelve until the birthday a few months before she had married Tavington, her father had given her a piece of jewelry. Mostly, she now understood, because it was easy. He did not worry about consulting her taste. They were expensive baubles he could buy and give her as a perfectly suitable present for a young lady. He had never given Letty anything for her birthday at all. Jane had usually given her some castoff clothing, or a little money.

She opened the box, fingering the array before her. Jane was fond of her jewelry, and did not like the thought of parting with any of it. However, she was going to do this thing properly. Box in hand, she marched back to the sitting room.

"If you are going to have nice clothes, Letty, you must have some jewelry to wear."

Letty fought down the impulse to refuse and simply looked astonished. Jane sat down beside her. "I have more jewelry than I can possibly use. It's ridiculous how much Papa gave me. Some of it should be yours. What do you like?"

It was terribly embarrassing for them both. Letty liked jewelry too, but did not want to be greedy. At length, with many protestations and deferrals, Letty was persuaded to accept a little garnet cross on a gold chain, and a pair of garnet earrings that Jane had never worn (Letty knew that Jane did not like garnets, but Letty thought them very pretty). Jane also gave her a string of good pearls, and a pair of pearl drop earrings to match. Jane had three sets of pearls. One year her father had not remembered that Jane already had her mother's pearls, which included necklace, bracelets, ring, earrings, and an elaborate corsage-style brooch. A few years later, he forgot that he had already given her pearls and gave her yet another set. It was absurd that Jane have so much, and Letty have nothing, even though all of the pearls were a little different, and pretty and desirable in their own way.

Letty grew quite teary-eyed over the jewelry, and Jane kissed her, feeling rather weepy herself. "We must find you a pretty trinket box for your treasures."

Letty put on the cross at once, and spent the rest of the day singing about the house. It took more than material goods, however, to convince her that she was now to be a lady. Tavington taken time, over the past few days, to remind her what she now was, and how to act the lady he considered her to be by blood.

"You must not call your sister 'Miss Jane,' any longer, Letty. You are not her servant."

"Oh, sir, I can't call her by her Christian name!"

"There is no need to do so," he agreed. "'Mrs. Tavington' is perfectly correct. Any unmarried woman would address her married sister thus. From now on, I wish you always to say 'Mrs. Tavington.' Both you and she need to become accustomed to it. And further, you need to become accustomed to hearing me speak of you in public as 'Miss Rutledge."

He had decided that she must take tea with them, and practice. It was terribly, terribly awkward at first—almost agonizingly so, as she sat with her sister and her sister's husband, dressed in a clean sprigged dress, wearing her garnet jewelry, being waited on by a grinning Moll. She could hardly speak, and was terrified that she would drop her cup. Miss—no—_Mrs. Tavington_, her sister—was patient and kind, though she seemed awkward and embarrassed at first, too. This great change was not one that could happen overnight, but working together for the journey seemed to help.

Some things they could not make for themselves, even had there been time. Jane had a quiet word with Mlle. Renaud, and was promised discretion and, indeed, every attention. Letty had the joyful surprise of her life, when on their visit to the modiste the next day, she was the one to be measured and consulted for a new wardrobe: her first new clothes of her very own—the clothes that Miss Rutledge would wear on her journey to England.

In fact, she would have preferred to have been told before, and not to be surprised, for it took a few minutes to compose herself enough to think about how to make the best of this indulgence. Miss Jane---no, she told herself—_her sister--_wanted to outfit her from top to toe. Some tradesmen who knew them would not want to accommodate Letty. They would have to go elsewhere, perhaps, for shoes or stays. Mlle. Renaud, however, had no such qualms, as long as it was not talked of openly.

And so they had a splendid try-on of fabrics and patterns. Jane had written out a little list, based on an inventory of her own clothing. They would certainly want to buy many things in England, where the fashions might have changed; but the voyage would last at least two months, and Letty must have decent apparel to uphold her status as a gentlewoman.

"'A traveling habit—broadcloth.'" Jane read off.

"A light broadcloth," Mlle. Renaud advised. "It is summer. And if I may suggest, Madame—when you arrive in England, you may need something to wear that you have not worn every day for two or three months."

"That's a consideration, indeed," Jane agreed, shuddering at the thought of meeting the undoubtedly elegant Lady Cecily when Jane herself was dirty and reeking. "Two apiece, then, one of which is to be packed against our arrival. I must have new traveling clothes myself. My old habit is quite-- worn out." _And it is hopelessly stained with Biddy's blood._ She rallied, and said, with a little laugh, "We ought not to wear the same color: we should look odd. What do you think?"

"Dark colors, that will not be easily soiled," Letty considered.

Sensible colors were proposed: Royal Blue, Moss Green, Oxblood, Cedar, Cypress, a clear purple that Mlle. Renaud described as English Violet. Letty loved blue, but did not like to put herself forward, in case Miss Jane—_her sister_—wished to wear it.

But Jane had other ideas. "Do you think this brown—"

"_Cypress_—" corrected Mlle. Renaud, under her breath.

"Do you think it is too dull? Does it make me look the same all over?"

"Yes—" replied Letty in a firm voice, forcing herself to remember their new relationship. "You know that I think you look better in strong colors, Mrs. Tavington—" She pulled out a fabric that pleased her. "This dark red—"

"_Claret_—"

"—Would be better on you—or wait—" This might do. "This green here—"

"_Moss_—"

"—brings out the color of your eyes."

It was a very pretty shade of green, Jane allowed. "Yes, the green, Letty, and that—claret--for England." She found some narrow braid that would trim her habits handsomely, and gave Mlle. Renaud a nod. "That will do very well. And now, what is it that _you_ like, Letty?"

"Oh—the blue, please." She would have liked to ask that they both be blue, but she knew that she would be glad of a change later. So she would have the blue to change into when they arrived in England, and after some thought she chose violet for the voyage. It was a rich and vibrant color, and she had never had anything in that shade before. There was a private reason for the color, too, which she did not tell Miss Jane for fear of upsetting her.

Quality folk like the Rutledges always wore mourning for relations who had died. Black, usually; but there were other colors suitable for mourning, like gray and purple. People did not wear mourning for slaves, and it had not occurred to Jane to buy Letty mourning clothes for her mother, much as she had loved her. Letty did not like to ask Colonel Tavington about it, but she guessed that a natural daughter, raised away from her mother, probably did not wear mourning for such a mother, either—if she even knew what had become of her. So Letty chose the violet as a kind of mourning for Mama. She would wear it on the ship and think of her, and only Mama and she would know the truth of it.

And so the traveling habits were ordered. Trimmings were debated and determined. Jane was concerned about the weather in England, so a darker blue that would harmonize with the royal blue habit was chosen in heavier wool to make Letty a warm and handsome cloak. It was lined with silver-grey silk. Letty had attained perfect bliss.

Jane had hardly begun. "You need other things, too, Letty. 'A fine shift, seven pair silk stockings, garters'—and an evening dress, of course."

"But—"

"Colonel Tavington says that we are certain to be dining every night with the captain. I have any number of dresses to wear—I favor the peacock for this, or perhaps the emerald—but you must have a proper gown as well."

A new search through silk and satin, and another gabble of absurd colors: _Topaz, Poison, Verdigris, Camellia—_

"Oh, I like this!" Jane cried. "How handsome it would look on you!"

"Brown?" Letty asked, a little disappointed.

"_Madeira_—" Mlle. Renaud admonished.

It was a rich reddish-brown watered silk. Taken by itself, Letty would have thought it dull, but then, with the vision of someone with a natural gift for style, she could see what a gown it would make. Miss Jane spoke of some of the fine lace, left over still, that would be just enough to make ruffles at the sleeves. Some beautiful ivory satin ribbon was found, that would be ruched and applied to the neckline, sleeves and skirt. Letty asked that the bodice be embroidered with ivory and yellow and peach flowers, flowing from a knot of pale green stems. The color of the gown would make her skin paler by contrast, and the cloth would never show the dirt of travel. Her heart pounded with the glory of it. The petticoat, it was decided, would be of the same silk. More items were bought, handkerchiefs and ribbons and caps and gloves, and a pretty painted fan.

They left the modiste, exhausted and exhilarated. But disappointment met them at home, when they were unable to tell Tavington the whole story. He smiled agreeably enough when they told him of the visit to the modiste to order Letty's clothes, but then protested when they went on too long about it, and begged them to spare him the details.

"It is enough that I shall see the results, I think!" He told them that he had ordered a new uniform to go home in himself, bought a Pennsylvania-style rife for his brother's gun collection, and had spent the entire afternoon with Jane's lawyer, making the necessary financial arrangements. Once at home in London, her fortune would be prudently invested in the five per cents. When Jane heard this, she felt reassured, but a little wistful. Tavington had not even asked for her presence. Two more payments had been made to her account during her absence: one for March and the latest for June, but her husband, not she, had collected the money. Tavington had given her a generous sum to help her prepare for the journey. Someday she might tell him about her little tin box, which held nearly six hundred pounds.

But not yet: there was still so much to do, and she did not want to account to him for every expenditure. Mlle. Renaud had recommended a good cobbler, a German, whom Jane did not know, and more importantly, who was unlikely to know Jane and Letty by sight. She and Letty went there the next day to order Letty travelling boots, plain black shoes, and a pair of dainty high-heeled slippers that would be covered in ecru grosgrain silk. Jane considered ordering shoes for herself, but decided that what she had would do well enough, after Moll polished them. She could get new shoes in England. It was an exciting thought.

A large trunk was bought, and sent on to their lodgings, to hold all of Letty's new acquisitions. Then, Jane stopped at the shop of her favorite silversmith.

She had thought about meeting Tavington's family, and was a little anxious about it. She did not want them to be unkind to Letty, or for the servants of household (whom Jane was secretly also very uneasy about) to sneer at her as a former slave and current poor relation. Letty must have things that no one could despise. So she found and bought a silver vanity set: silver backed brush and silver and ivory comb, elaborate hand mirror, powder box, and a little trinket box for the new jewels. Laid out on a dressing table, the items would proclaim Letty's status to any disdainful housemaid.

-----

Lord Rawdon, Tavington told Jane, was leaving South Carolina, too. The past few weeks had been stressful for their friend. There had been a tremendous outcry over the fate of a rebel, one Colonel Hayne, who had been caught spying for the enemy. Bad as it was, it was made unforgivable by the fact that the man had previously been captured and had given his parole. Now it was discovered that he had been gathering intelligence and trying to spread rebellion in Charlestown. He was found guilty of his crimes and had been hanged, despite pleas from a number of Charlestown ladies. Rebel papers were denouncing Rawdon as a tyrant and a murderer-- not mentioning the similar case of the brave Major André , whom the rebels had hanged with what Tavington considered far less cause.

"He's quite ill, Jane: the climate has never agreed with him. With the summer heat coming on, he's not likely to last much longer if he remains here. I asked if we could come to call tomorrow to bid him farewell. I don't suppose you could be ready to leave for England by the end of the week?"

Jane looked at him with such alarm and horror that Tavington gave up the idea of traveling with Rawdon at once. It had been an impulse of the moment. He liked Rawdon, but it was plainly not to be. Besides, if the poor fellow died in the course of his voyage, it would spoil the adventure for Jane.

"All right, then: it was merely a suggestion. I have found us a ship that departs in less than a fortnight: a frigate of the Royal Navy, no less, that has been ordered to Portsmouth. It will be a fairly convenient port--better than having to make the journey from Liverpool to London, certainly. Captain Ballantine seems a decent sort, and the accommodations on the _Artemisia_ are adequate. A good captain, and a swift ship: we should be sitting down to dinner at Number 12, Mortimer Square by the first of September, with any luck."

"I am very sorry his lordship in unwell. He's been a good friend to us."

"True. It will be a brief visit, of course, and around three tomorrow. He wants us to bring the boy, as well."

Jane glowed. Anyone who liked her son was obviously a person of great good sense. "How nice that Lord Rawdon remembers his godson."

Lord Rawdon remembered him well indeed. The young man was feverish and thinner than ever, but took the child on his lap and admired him even to Jane's satisfaction. "Born in the midst of battle, Tavington. Destined to be a soldier, I've no doubt." Luckily, little William Francis was an amiable mood, and granted his godfather a crooked grin. "Ah! See that! He agrees with me."

The good-byes were cheerful enough, with the Tavingtons wishing Rawdon a quick return to very good health.

"The voyage will set you up, no doubt, my lord."

Rawdon grumbled good-naturedly. "Perhaps, perhaps. Kill or cure, more like. Pity I can't stay to deal with the rebels, but—" he glanced at Tavington in a way the other man clearly understood—"I tend to think it's all 'too little, too late' anyway."

"It may be so."

"Well, it's a great pity. It's bad enough that Cornwallis had taken his army with him, but now Sir Henry has demanded that 17th Light Dragoons join him in New York. It's clear we shall be left with nothing. I would like to think that heads will roll, but I daresay that's too much to hope for. Probably rewarded for their idiocy. 'Tis a very Vanity Fair at Court."

"One must take the world as it is, my lord," smiled Tavington, "not as we would wish it to be."

-----

Mary Laurens heard of Jane's departure from Jane herself; and found it very hard to conceal her disappointment.

"Well, my dear Jane," she said in a falsely bright voice, "it has always been your wish to travel. I wish you a safe and pleasant voyage."

"You are very kind, Cousin."

"You must dine with me before you leave. Would Saturday suit? I shall have a large dinner, I think, and have the Cotesworths join us. You must give me the name of some good friends of the Colonel's, and I shall invite them, so he has men to converse with him. I have met Colonel Balfour. I shall invite him, and I need two others to make the table right. Would it be too dreadful if I were to invite your father and Selina?

"I suppose it would be very generous of you, but I do not see that you are obliged to do so in any way."

"Let me put it to you this way: do you wish to see them before you go?"

"No, not particularly. The Colonel and I called on them a few weeks ago, and that was a farewell of sorts."

"Then I shall not invite them. We shall have a very pleasant, select party, with both cards and music to entertain us! However, my dear, as your elder I must tell you that you ought to send your father a note informing him of your departure. He ought then to invite you—"

"—but I shall not expect it too much."

"Very sensible of you." The older woman felt real sadness, and burst out, "Oh, Jane, indeed I am very sorry to see you go. I shall miss you very much. You are the most amiable of your generation: only Eleanor is the least like you."

"Well, then, you must make a good friend of Eleanor. She admires you greatly. And it is not as if we shall never hear from each other. I promise to write you as soon as I arrive in England."

"Will you? That is a pleasant idea. We shall have a regular correspondence! Do write nice, long letters, Jane. I want to know all about this Lady Cecily and about the English fashions."

The dinner party went rather well. Both Cousin Mary and Tavington were on their best behavior. True to her word, Jane's cousin had invited only the nicest of Jane's relations. Out of gratitude for his kindness, and a little curiosity, Jane suggested that Cousin Mary ask Lieutenant Nettles, who would be gone himself in a few days. Captain Bordon was pleased to be invited to dine, and delighted his hostess with his well-bred interest in fine porcelain.

"Such a gentleman!" whispered Cousin Mary to Jane behind her fan. "Most men have no feeling for pretty, delicate things. It is hard to credit that he is a soldier."

Jane smiled. "Captain Bordon plans to join the clergy after the war is over."

"I am so glad to hear it. A much more civilized occupation."

Jane was relieved that Tavington and Bordon did not hear the exchange, as they sat together at the card table, playing whist with Mrs. Cotesworth and the charming Eleanor. Captain Bordon might be trusted to maintain his polite exterior, but her husband would certainly have rolled his eyes. She took herself off to Cousin Mary's harpsichord, playing a light-hearted air by Mr. John Christian Bach. Cousin Mary engaged Colonel Balfour in debating the virtues of Carolina versus Scottish cuisine. Jane sighed, feeling a little too full. She was maintaining her weight with conscientious effort, and must continue to do so in order to fit into her beautiful new clothes.

Harry Nettles took the chair beside her with a smile, offering to turn pages.

"It has been a strange adventure, here in South Carolina. My men will be happy to miss the rest of the summer, but I know not what awaits us in New York."

The piece was easy enough that Jane could converse, with occasional attention to the music. She gave a little shrug. "_I_ know not what awaits me in England."

"We are all in the hand of Providence, Mrs. Tavington. I most sincerely wish you happiness in your future life. Is your son well?"

She was always happy to hear Will spoken of, and after a page, was able to reply. "Oh, yes! How kind of you to ask. He is very well and strong, and grows almost as I watch."

The piece ended, and Nettles said, "That is good news, indeed. I sometimes wish—"

What he had wished, Jane would never know. Cousin Mary called her to order, with a suggestion that the four of them form a second table for whist. Jane knew her duty. She gave Nettles a little rueful smile. They settled down to the card games that Jane hated but politely pretended to enjoy; and any possibility of private conversation between them ended forever.

-----

Jane dreamed of the big coach and the journey through the backcountry. She had had this dream before, at least once a week since returning to Charlestown. It would come back whenever she thought of traveling. The unhappiness of it sometimes seeped into her waking hours, for she dreamed of the hot misery of her labor, her utter helplessness, and the half hour of sheer terror as anonymous men tried to force their way through a flimsy door. Biddy spun around, covered with blood, and died, and died. Sometimes the attackers burst through the door and other terrible things happened. Once she had awakened, trembling, from the shock of a musket butt smashing her tiny son.

Jane was dreaming again, just before dawn. She was in the coach--not just the big coach as it had existed, but an exaggerated version, with seats as big as sofas. Moll was traveling with them, musket in hand, looking out the windows, alert to any movement. Jane must have already have had the baby, for Letty was holding Little Will on her lap. Biddy was knitting calmly, and looked up to say, "I reckon they'll be coming soon, now."

"Oh, Mamma!" cried Letty. "What's going to happen? What's going to happen?"

The door rattled. "You women come on out!"

Moll called out, "Don't think so!"

Jane shivered. She wanted to get up and run, but her hands were icy with fear and she could not stir. The door rattled again, and a dark shape outside peered through the windows. Jane tried to call for help. "Oh, please—"

Moll lifted her musket to her shoulder in a swift, fluid motion, and fired. A howl, and a dark shape fluttered away. Moll raised her brows and remarked, "Menfolk ain't always there to protect the womenfolk."

Jane was still frightened. "What if they come back?"

Moll reached into her pocket for a pistol, and handed it to Jane. "Then you'll be ready."

The door rattled. Jane fired.

"That's right, ma'am," Moll nodded. "Women may be the weaker sex, but a good pistol evens the odds."

Jane rolled over, and began to slowly wake, still partly in the dream. As her rational mind asserted itself, the more absurd features of the dream faded into the background. The dream became a kind of drama, in which she could rearrange events to her liking. She did not have to be completely helpless if she planned very carefully.

That day, with Moll's advice, she purchased a pocket pistol of good quality in its own neat wooden box, and listened carefully while Moll explained how to use it.

-----

The day—the last day—dawned bright and hot. The trunks were packed, the spinet dismantled, the cradle and writing desks and other impedimenta were ready, and all was loaded into a hired dray to be carried to the docks. Jane had settled with Mrs. Todd for all her work two days ago, and for their lodgings the night before. Moll was dressed in her fresh clean clothes, the very picture of a model servant. Her ruddy face shone with the pleasure of them, her red hair seemed on fire against the pure white of her new cap, the clean straw of her hat. Taking Little Will up in her arms for a kiss, she dimpled hugely, and then gave him to Letty. Moll would go with the draymen, and keep an eye on the Tavingtons' possessions. Tavington with his two ladies would travel for the last time in the chariot, squeezing in rather cordially. Seth was proudly perched in the driver's seat. Papers in his pocket declared him a free man, and the carriage and team his very own, to do with as he liked.

Tavington had already bid farewell to the last remnants of the men he had commanded. It had troubled him a little, to think how much they had borne, and how meanly they were likely to be rewarded. He would try to speak for them and others like them when he was home. Ironically, at this point he probably could do them more good in London than he could here.

He and Jane had been invited to a round of dinners for the past week, and had made their good-byes yesterday to those closest to them: to old Silas, now failing fast; to Cousin Mary, pink-cheeked and rather damp with unaccustomed emotion; to Bordon, who had called on them, sturdily enduring his maimed arm, more and more a clergyman in demeanor.

Once settled in the carriage, Jane took the baby in her arms. She was smiling, but a little nostalgic. Her whole life history flashed before her in these streets that she was unlikely to see ever again. The bold market women, the cries of the black laborers, a half-heard fiddle tune, that put her painfully in mind of Silas—they were fading away behind her, fading into the distant, dead, inaccessible past. She glanced up at Tavington's handsome profile. He seemed lost in pleasant anticipation, no doubt thinking of that home and family and England that he knew intimately, and she not at all. Letty, on her other side, seemed as uneasy as Jane herself, but oh, how pretty she looked! Jane had always longed for a sister, and now she discovered that she had always had one near at hand.

For her part, Letty was trembling a little; hardly knowing herself in her smart violet habit, wondering if she would be found out and scorned at the docks. The Colonel would protect her, she hoped.

And then the docks were before them, and there was Moll, high on the wagon, beaming at the sight of them. Jane smiled back. There would be two women with her in England that she knew, thank God!

Moll did not seem uneasy, as she jumped down to run to the chariot and take Little Will from them. Letty could have told Jane, however, that Moll had cried herself to sleep the night before: weeping for her husband and child, for her father and mother. The tears were contagious: Letty had cried for Mama, hoping that she knew Letty was safe and free and cared for, and going to England to be a lady, never to be a slave ever again.

A blessed bustle distracted the women. Jane reminded the teamsters, one last time, of what she wanted put in the cabin, and that the spinet was _not_ to be stored in the hold. William had told her that their cabin was large enough to hold the tiny spinet, and that it would be a needed diversion on a long voyage.

Letty had her own troubles, insisting not only on keeping her own large trunk, but a little one as well. She had passed her own small trunk on to Moll, but this other trunk had been her mother's, and was still as her mother had left it. When unlocked, Letty could catch a fugitive scent from it of Mama: herbs and old linen and love. No one had challenged her possession of it: no one even knew what it was, but it was Letty's, a private treasure she would not even share with—her mind whispered stubbornly—_Miss Jane._ But Miss Jane hardly existed herself, any more than Mama. Miss Jane had become Mrs. Tavington, a significantly different person. _Miss Jane_ was part of her past. _Mrs. Tavington_ was part of her life, and her future.

An officer was coming to greet them, smiling and bowing to them all as they were introduced. He looked at Letty the longest, admiring, as the Colonel said, "—our sister, Miss Rutledge—" She smiled back, and gave him a shy nod, hardly hearing his hearty speech with the Colonel about the weather, and when they should leave the harbor, and when they should make sail. Beside her, she heard her sister's sudden hissing breath, and turned to see what had alarmed her.

A big carriage had rumbled to a stop behind them: a carriage they all knew well. Letty felt she might faint. The Colonel turned at the noise, and took his wife's arm. Letty slipped a little behind him, wanting him between her and what was coming.

Tavington's voice, blessedly cool, spoke into the tension. "Excuse us, Paget. We would like a private word with my wife's father."

----- 

As his carriage arrived at the docks, Ashbury Rutledge congratulated himself on his family feeling. He had received Jane's note, informing him of her departure. It was all working out for the best. The British were going to lose the war, he was convinced, and now was the time to snip the last of his ties to them.

Jane's elopement had done most of the work for him. Many men would understand his coldness to an undutiful daughter. A few of his relations, however—especially the soppy, vexing, female relations--had raised eyebrows when it became manifest that he did not intend to host a farewell dinner for his eldest child and her husband. Well, he had business near the docks today, and could spare the time for a goodbye to Jane. Selina had shown some willingness to accompany him, but she was a mother, and her duty was at home. It would be quicker and easier to go alone, find the _Artemisia's_ berth, and bid a brisk farewell that would appear forgiving and magnanimous when related to his cousins.

Tavington's red coat stood out brilliantly in the late June sun. Swallowing the taste of bile at the sight of that man, Rutledge sneered. _Go back to England and stay there, you preening bully._ The loss of Jane's fortune rankled. It would have been a tidy nest egg for Thomas, but now it was to be wasted on this adventurer and his puny brat. Briefly, Rutledge speculated on how many years it would take for a wastrel like Tavington to fritter the money away. No matter what straits Jane was brought to, she would never be welcome in his house again. It would be very satisfying, though, when she crawled home and begged for mercy. He smiled, the scene vivid in his imagination.

Jane was dressed in an expensive-looking green traveling habit and an elaborate plumed hat, attempting to hide her plain little face from the unforgiving sun. She and Tavington were talking with a naval officer and another lady, who was dressed in an attractive if sober shade of violet. Perhaps the officer's wife. A pretty woman, her face shaded by a hat similar to Jane's: wide-brimmed, trimmed with plumes and a big violet satin bow that matched her dress. He could not spare his attention to admire her, however, for Jane had seen him, and was looking his way, her face gone still and hard. Rutledge snorted. What? Was the worm turning? Did she dare harbor a grudge at his neglect, when it was so entirely deserved? He would bid her farewell, and think no more of her. Were she impudent with him, he could give back better than he got.

His coach stopped, and the slave opened the door and let down the stairs. Rutledge emerged with unhurried dignity, assuming a beneficent air as he approached his daughter and son-in-law. The lady in violet hung behind them, and the naval officer moved away to supervise the loading of the Tavingtons' possessions.

"Jane, my dear child."

Tavington suppressed a sneer at the man's tone. Rutledge's drawling Carolina voice was honeyed with insincere sentiment. Jane felt stiff as a waxen image, pressed against his side. Behind him, Letty's breathing was quick and shallow. They must know that they need fear nothing. If they had survived Martin, they would certainly survive this self-important provincial, who could do nothing to harm them now.

Or could he? He was their father, after all, and his words might still have the power to wound. Tavington bowed politely, but fixed the man with a steady, warning stare.

Jane, beside him, curtsied, her thoughts a jumble. _Should I not be feeling more regret, at bidding my father farewell, probably forever? Am I an unfeeling daughter? Perhaps so, perhaps so… _She was sorry to see him, and that was the truth. She did not want to hear his paternal posturings, the sententious words barely concealing his contempt. She did not want him to notice Letty… _Oh, dear! Letty!_

"Papa." Her voice shook only a little.

Her father was looking down at her, his face creased into something resembling a kindly smile. "Selina sends her fondest regards. She was much too busy with our children to come herself, you understand."

"Perfectly," Tavington replied, still fixing his father-in-law with a withering stare.

"Is that your servant there?" Rutledge gestured at Moll. "Have her bring the boy over so I can have a last look at him."

Moll, disliking the man at first sight, came forward quickly and bobbed a perfunctory curtsey. She had overheard the Colonel and his wife often enough; and Letty had confided much to her. He was the baby's grandfather, nonetheless, and might have a gift for him. He looked rich enough. She held out little William Francis for his inspection, on the watch for any carelessness, and confident in her greater strength and height to prevent it.

"Such a tiny creature. Jane was always undersized too. Perhaps he'll improve, if he lives."

_All right, that's enough._ Tavington stepped forward impetuously and very nearly knocked the man down. "He's doing exceedingly well. It was good of you to take the trouble, but we must be on our way. My compliments to your lady." With tremendous effort, he refrained from snarling the last two words. He must do nothing to endanger his other son, the one whom he must leave behind with this man.

Jane shook herself, lifting her chin and glaring at her father. "Yes. Goodbye, Papa. I'm sure we'll will all be quite well, now that we are _leaving."_

"Where are the slaves?" Rutledge asked abruptly. "I hear you've freed the men. Just what this colony needs: more puffed-up freedmen spoiling the Negroes for hard work." His voice slowed, and stopped abruptly, as he stared beyond them. He took an angry breath, and with a voice curdled with loathing, he asked, "And what is that wench doing, got up like that?"

Jane could hardly swallow, and clung to her husband's arm, wanting to run. Tavington, however, ignored her fright and Letty's soft whimper. "Miss Rutledge is dressed as she ought to be—as a gentleman's daughter. At least, you have the _name_ of being a gentleman, though I've never quite discerned anything particularly gentlemanly about you. However, Miss Rutledge is my wife's sister, and will be treated as she deserves."

"Ha!" Rutledge grimaced and spat. He eyed Jane with utter disdain. "So you've pandered Letty off to your redcoat, have you? Think you'll keep him at home, if he has a high-yellow whore—"

Tavington started toward Rutledge with a growl. A faint, pained cry from Letty pushed Jane over the edge. She stepped in front of her husband, and narrowed her eyes at her father.

"You horrible man! You don't know what you're talking about! You think everyone is as bad as you are! How I despise you! There! I've said it!"

Tavington drew her away. "Yes, my dear, you've said quite enough. We're leaving now. There's no reason to care what some brutish slave driver thinks. Take Letty and Moll and go. I'll deal with your father."

Rutledge exploded. "You're no daughter of mine!"

Jane could not resist. She caught at Letty's hand and asked pertly, "Which one of us do you mean?"

Her father appeared in danger of another stroke. Jane hissed, overjoyed at the opportunity. "What are you going to do, _Papa?_ Disinherit me? Oh, but you already have!" She tossed her head back, her plumes nodding triumphantly. "Come, _sister._ Let us shake the dust of South Carolina from our feet. We are for England!"

Letty took a last look back at the man who had begotten her, but had never been more to her than a slave master. Red-faced and engorged with hate, he was nothing for her to regret leaving. She breathed a sigh, and took her part in the procession to the gangplank.

A few of the workmen had approached, curious about the raised voices. Mr. Paget, closer still, had heard the words, "--no daughter of mine!—" and pitied the ladies, especially Miss Rutledge, the shy, pretty one. The old man must be drunk. His face was red enough. Then he gave all his attention to helping the ladies escape the ugly situation and board the ship.

As the women departed, Tavington turned to his father-in-law, smirk firmly in place. There was no longer any reason to treat this man with any consideration. "Be off with you. You've said quite enough yourself. Jane and her sister will have a good life in England amongst people fit for them." He cocked his head, and softly admonished the older man. "Come, Rutledge. What _are_ you going to do? Spread the news of Miss Rutledge's new life abroad to the rest of your—and her—kin?"

Rutledge's red face began to purple. "Damn you," he choked hoarsely. "Bloody thieving redcoat."

Tavington studied him with new curiosity. "Is that what this has been about all along? Jane's fortune? You were hoping to get your hands on it?" He laughed, a clear laugh born of all his fresh hopes. "Why, man, you'll be dead long before she is. What would her fortune be to you then? You're a shabby sort of man, Rutledge: small and shabby and mean-spirited, and no doubt time will have it revenge upon you. As for me, I think you not worth my spite."

With an ironic bow, he turned and followed his wife to the ship, leaving Ashbury Rutledge on the dock, sputtering like wet gunpowder.

-----

The tide had turned: the sky was darkening into the clear deep blue of evening. Jane and Letty stood together at the rail of the ship, looking back as South Carolina sank beyond the dim horizon. Only the low line of Charlestown Harbor remained, punctuated with the stone bulk of the Exchange and the white spire of St. Michael's, catching the sun's fading rays.

"That's the last of America," Jane whispered. A seagull winged overhead, headed toward the distant shore, its mournful farewell cry already carried away by the night breeze. Jane had so looked forward to the journey, but now she was a little afraid. The gurgle and splash of the water against the sides of the ship; the disorienting sway of the deck beneath her feet; it was everything and nothing like her dreams. The reality of the unplumbed depths beneath her, already inky in the twilight, filled her with awe and dread. Beneath them swam Leviathans vast beyond imagination, their immensity taking no note of the little dot of wood and metal skimming over the merest surface of their watery domain. She had felt small in the wild backcountry, surrounded by hostile men. Now she felt microscopic: an insignificant speck at the mercy of indifferent Nature.

She linked Letty's arm in hers, glad that she was not alone. Those few familiar faces remaining to her would be her anchor. Moll, sturdy Moll, was in the warm light of her cabin below, seeing to the baby. She could hear William talking with Captain Ballantine about fox hunting, of all things; both men as calm as if they had just taken dinner at a comfortable country house. The officers dining with them had been very kind: happy to know that Mrs. Tavington had brought a spinet and that she and her sister would give them an entertainment, now and then. Little Mr. Pevensey, a rosy-cheeked midshipman of eleven, had even made bold to suggest a ball!

Her sister's sweet voice broke into her thoughts. "The stars are coming out."

Letty was dressed in her new silk gown, hair dressed high, long curls teasing her left shoulder. She looked above, to the great glittering dome of heaven. Jane would look up too, in a moment, when the last white flash of Charlestown was gone.

-----

**End Part 1**

And so you see, dear readers, the story does not end here. Life goes on, sometimes even in fiction. I shall take a short break before embarking on the second part of _Tavington's Heiress._ Thank you to all my loyal reviewers, who have given me such support. And thanks as well to those of you who have simply stopped by to read.

**Next—Chapter 26: Sea of Promise, Sea of Storms**


	26. Sea of Promise, Sea of Storms

**Beginning Part II:**

**Chapter 26: Sea of Promise, Sea of Storms**

"Do you play cards, Miss Rutledge?"

"No—I have never played." Very daringly, Letty added, "I have always thought I might like to, but I never have."

Lieutenants Grantley, Paget, and Duckham, her faithful courtiers, exchanged pleased looks, as they finished their dinner at the captain's table. Captain Ballantine, who was very fond of card play himself, lost no time inviting her to learn the noble game of whist. It was a week into their voyage, long enough for the Tavington party to have gotten over the worst of their sea-sickness, each at his or her individual pace.

Tavington had sailed before, many times, and was always disordered for the first day or so. He had enough experience, however, to avoid staring at the horizon before he was completely acclimated, and it was not long before he was out on the deck with the officers, or below, working on his notes of the campaign.

His womenfolk had fared far worse. Jane lay on the narrow bed, occasionally moaning, a damp cloth over her face. Letty had often come in to lie down next to her. Tavington was dutifully sympathetic to their misery, gave them each a little watered wine, and left them to Moll's care. A seasoned campaigner like the hearty sergeant's wife had not turned a hair at sailing; and when not tending the ladies or the baby, she would stroll the deck, sturdy as an able seaman, helping the sailors coil ropes and chatting up the ship's carpenter and cook. Tavington thought that she would as soon go aloft as not, were she not encumbered by petticoats.

Tonight, though, the ladies felt equal to dressing for dinner with the captain. Tavington was glad to have them join the party. He congratulated himself on his own judgement in choosing this ship. Ballantine and his officers had proved pleasant companions. Aside from the captain, whom he had liked from the first, he had particularly taken to the lieutenant of marines on board, Fordyce Grantley. Grantley was a lively fellow, from a long line of marines, starting in the service without a penny to his name, but now well pleased with the prize money he had earned in this war. Naval officers, Tavington found, did not seem to have the personal animus against the rebels that he felt himself. It was different he supposed, when you rarely saw the enemy face to face, except during the brief fiery moments of battle. At dinner, Ballantine and his officers listened with horror to Tavington's tales of rebel atrocities.

Ballantine clearly spoke for them all when he finally said, "Hardly the work of a Christian people. Since the old Caribbean pirates were put down, only the crews of the Barbary Coast display that kind of savagery at sea. I thank God I'm a sailor!" A rumble of assent rose from the table at large.

With the addition of Jane and Letty to the dinner party, such topics were avoided, since Tavington had given Ballantine a condensed account of the day his son was born, and warned him that the subject was a painful one. He had not revealed that the slaughtered nursemaid was the lovely Miss Rutledge's mother, but even without that detail, it was all dreadful enough.

It was always pleasant to have women at dinner. The conversation was a little more elevated in tone. Tavington was glad to see Jane in the splendor of her emerald green gown. And Letty! She was a sight indeed, dressed in dark silk that made her skin glow in contrast. There was nothing to blush for in the appearance of his female companions—and nothing to decry in their conversation. Jane restrained her unfortunate tendency to sarcasm, understanding that they must get along with this little party for at least eight weeks. Letty was very quiet, but could be brought out to reply to questions about her reading or her music. Mostly, she listened: fascinated by talk of travel and adventure, and most especially by tales of London life. Her dark liquid eyes glowed with every anecdote of town pleasures, and she made bold occasionally to beg for more particulars.

Ballantine, tall and lean, with grey in his temples lending him a touch of distinction, volunteered to partner Letty himself in the game. The table was cleared and the cards brought out with anticipation. Nor did the captain neglect Jane.

"And you, Mrs. Tavington--will you not join us?"

Jane managed a smiling assent, much to her husband's amusement. Tavington had been surprised when Jane, in one of her occasional fits of marital unreserve, had confessed to him how very much she hated playing cards. It was too bad, for cards were a favorite pastime at home. Mamma was known for her daring play, and John—well, John had lost more money at the gaming tables than Tavington was ever likely to possess. Gambling was a fever from the cream of London society down to its veriest dregs. Tavington prided himself on knowing when to stop, but he knew many—like his father—who had played their way to ruin. No matter. Mamma liked to play cards, and Jane would have to be a complaisant daughter-in-law. Letty, too, needed some expertise in this important social skill.

Paget instantly claimed the right to partner Jane. Tavington knew it was because he wanted to be part of the quartet playing with Letty. A decent young man, in Tavington's opinion, if a little too given to sentimental reflection and poetry. The unhappy Duckham and the rest of the officers on watch took themselves off, and left the players to their sport.

Tavington sat down to his own game; with Grantley, the red-faced ship's surgeon Mr. Plumson, and young midshipman Claypoole. Young, certainly: he could not be more than thirteen. And yet, here he was in mid-ocean, risking life and limb for the Crown as much as anyone, and was treated like a man by his fellow officers. There were two other midshipmen on board: young Spalding, who was old enough to be preparing for his lieutenant's examination, and Pevensey, the little boy of eleven, who still vocally hoped for a ball. Indeed, the midshipmen were all treated like men--but like young men who needed guidance. The older officers taught them their lessons: not only navigation and (Tavington shuddered delicately) advanced mathematics on a regular schedule, but other subjects as well, when there was time. Tavington was glad, himself, that he had had those hard adolescent years at Eton, and not at sea. It was bad enough to be a schoolboy, without also being occasionally fired upon. His companions focused on the game, only occasionally glancing over to admire Laeticia Rutledge.

Letty had become exceedingly popular on board ship. As the only unmarried female, she was of natural interest to a crew of lonely men. As a remarkably pretty, sweet-spoken young lady, she absolutely riveted their attention.

Little presents made their way to her, left before her cabin door in the morning like offerings before an altar: a carved cylindrical needlecase of some tropical wood, rare shells, a necklace of little coral beads, an amazing ornamental comb of whale ivory, etched with a frigate in full rigging and the name "_ARTEMISIA._"

Tavington smiled as he dealt the cards, remembering Letty's worried conferences with Jane about these gifts, overheard in the close quarters of their cabins.

"What shall I do with them?"

"Well," replied Jane, "you cannot wear the items here aboard ship, or the giver might misunderstand and talk about you in an improper way. Of course you may keep them. The comb, especially, is a wonderful souvenir of our voyage."

"I'll put them away in my trunk," Letty assured her. "I can carry the needlecase in my pocket, though. It's such a nice size."

Jane did not seem envious of the attention paid Letty, which would, of course, have been very inappropriate to pay a married women accompanied by her husband. Tavington thought his wife was a little nonplussed by the speed Letty was adapting to her new role, but in the main she seemed pleased for her.

The conversation over cards quieted, as the players concentrated on their game. Tavington glanced up at a delighted cry from Letty.

"Does that mean I win?"

"Indeed, ma'am, the game is yours. Shall we have another?"

"I don't know—I haven't much money to risk---"

Tavington spoke up. "Think nothing of it, sister. Let me be your banker. Only let the stakes be moderate."

Jane frowned at him slightly, narrowing her eyes. Tavington smiled back at her disarmingly. _Just because you do not care for cards, my dear wife, you ought not to repress the pleasures of others._

-----

_You ought not to encourage her._ Jane glared at her husband, annoyed with him. Playing cards was a silly way for rational men and women to pass the time. Letty had no money, and should not be led into situations that could put her honor at risk. If she accrued debts, Jane must pay them, or see her sister in a debtor's prison. She would talk quietly with Letty later. Tavington did not seem likely to support Jane. Their fortune was good, but not equal to the demands of frequent high play. And she hated cards anyway. It was impossible to hold an intelligent conversation during a game, for if she were distracted, her partner would justly blame her.

At last the game was over. Captain Ballantine had taken the trick, and was well pleased with the evening and his pretty partner. Jane caught Letty's eye, and the ladies made to withdraw. The gentlemen would have another glass of wine together, and they bowed and smiled their goodnights, mellow with a comfortable evening. Before Jane and Letty could leave, however, they were stopped by Lieutenant Paget, who pressed a leather-bound volume into Letty's hands.

"I nearly forgot, Miss Rutledge, that I meant to lend you this. It is a new novel by a lady. My sister gave it me, and it was all the rage in England when we sailed."

_"Evelina,_" Letty read the title. "I thank you, sir."

The young officer blushed. "It is the story of a young lady's entrance into London society: her adventures and misadventures. I though it would divert both of you ladies on this long voyage. There are some serious parts, and also some comic ones, and some very good descriptions of the sights of London."

Captain Ballantine overheard. _"Evelina,_ eh? Paget lent the book to me. Not bad: you ladies should enjoy it. I must protest at the character of the sea-captain in it, however. I would never use a women so ill as he does, even _were_ she a Frenchwoman!"

With thanks, Jane and Letty left, peering into the book.

"Another novel told in letters," Letty said. "At least it is not terribly long."

Jane was pleased. "It was a good thought of Mr. Paget's. We shall read it to one another, and it will divert us for quite some time!"

And so they did. For days, Evelina's hopes and dreams and endless social crises were all they lived and breathed. They commiserated with their heroine over her rude, vulgar relations and her embarrassment at the _faux pas_ she made. Jane approved of the book: though the author had not identified herself, she was clearly genteel, and the book was very educational. She and Letty would read a chapter out loud, and then discuss what was to be learned from it.

One afternoon, they reached the point of Evelina's first London ball, and what befell her there. Babe in arms, Moll came in to hear the story, and kept her peace throughout, though the faces she made at times showed all too clearly what she thought.

"You mean," asked Letty very earnestly, concerned with a point of etiquette that she had not known, "that if I refuse to dance with a gentleman, I cannot dance with anyone else for the rest of the evening?"

"That is correct. The only excuse is that you do not mean to dance at all."

"But what if the gentleman is mean, or rude—or drunk?"

"Then that is very bad, but there is no help for it. Women do have the power of refusal, but it must be a blanket refusal."

"That's not fair."

"There is nothing fair about society. It is a world of arbitrary rules. I cannot understand how Evelina should be ignorant of such a thing. It speaks very poorly for her guardian. She was taught _how_ to dance, clearly; but at the same time, she should have been taught how to conduct herself in a ballroom."

"And everyone says she is very accomplished, but it is not clear at what. She never plays or sings or works. I am not sure what is meant."

"A common description. Of course, the heroine of a novel _must_ be beautiful and accomplished. It is hard to imagine a novel in which she was not." Jane sighed to herself, knowing that she was not the stuff of which heroines in novels were made. _Now Letty… _"Enough of this for today. We ought to have a music lesson, while the light is still good." She smiled down at little William Francis. The baby was wriggling unconcerned in his basket at the feet of Moll, who was sewing diligently on a new apron, while she muttered, "Stuff and nonsense!" under her breath.

The ship's carpenter had been cajoled into making a shallow wooden box that could be attached to the floor and which held the spinet in place. Otherwise, it would have slid back and forth with the roll of the ship, and perhaps tipped over. The carpenter's work kept it safe. Jane had promised an entertainment to the officers, and she wanted her pupil to do her credit. Tavington had asked if Letty could sing for them. Jane had heard her, from earliest childhood, singing old ballads and hymns. She had a pretty voice, and one that might be trained by someone more expert than Jane. Having no voice herself, she knew little of the art. She had only a few pieces for voice, those few that Miss Gilpin had tried to teach her before she gave it up as hopeless. Letty practiced these, very softly, in the privacy of her sister's cabin. Jane did her best, sifting her memories for the suggestions Miss Gilpin had made. Luckily, Letty's voice was pleasant enough to make amends for Jane's limitations.

As they worked, Tavington entered, and laughed at the words of the song, _The Bold Soldier._

_"Soldier, oh soldier,_

_A-coming from the plain:_

_He courted a lady for honor and for fame._

_Her beauty shone so bright_

_That it never could be told._

_She always loved the soldier,_

_Because he was so bold._

_Fa la la la, fa la la la,_

_Fa la la la, fa la la._

'_Soldier, oh soldier,_

_It's I would be your bride,_

_But I fear of my father_

_Some danger might betide.'_

_Then he pulled out sword and pistol,_

_And hung them by his side._

_Swore he would be married,_

_No matter what betide._

_Then he took her to the parson,_

_And, of course, home again._

_There they met her father,_

_And seven armè__d men._

'_Let us fly,' said the lady,  
_

'_I fear we shall be slain.'_

'_Take my hand,' said the soldier,_

'_And never fear again.'_

_Then he pulled out sword and pistol,_

_And causè__d them to rattle,_

_The lady held the horse_

_While the soldier fought in battle._

'_Hold your hand!' said the old man,_

'_Do not be so bold._

_You shall have my daughter,_

_And a thousand pounds of gold.'_

'_Fight on!' said the lady._

'_The portion is too small!'_

'_Hold your hand,' said the old man,_

'_And you shall have it all.'_

_Then he took them right straight home,_

_And he called them son and dear._

_Not because he loved them,_

_But only through fear._

_Fa la la la, fa la la la,_

_Fa la la la, fa la la."_

"Very charming, Letty," Tavington approved. "You have a lovely voice. But why so soft?"

Jane said, annoyed, "Because we want it to be a surprise, not something that everyone has heard a thousand times!"

Tavington smirked at Jane's testy tone. "I like the song, too. It could be a page from our memoirs. Perhaps I should have rattled my sabre a bit more at your father."

"I think I should have liked that. Letty has another song she can sing as well—a more refined one, but you shall hear it later. Perhaps once in England, we can find a master to teach Letty to sing."

"A good thought, though Caro and Pen could help her there. They both sing very well. Mother often has them sing duets after dinner. I'm sure she would like to hear Letty as well."

"Oh!" cried Letty, "I couldn't sing in front of Lady Tavington!"

Tavington felt an uncomfortable tensing at the back of his neck. "You certainly must if you are asked. More importantly, you must not call my mother, 'Lady Tavington,' under _any_ circumstances!"

Letty looked at him bewildered. Moll's face was equally blank. Jane appeared to be thinking. Tavington decided that he must make it perfectly clear to them all. A petty matter: but family harmony was endangered by such mistakes.

"Listen carefully to me," he began. "You, too, Moll. I am going to explain English titles to you. If you think soldiers are touchy about rank, you will find they are modesty itself compared to the aristocracy." The women were all listening wide-eyed. Tavington considered his words, and then began:

"My mother is the daughter of the Earl of Colchester. As an earl's daughter, she was born with the title 'Lady,' and was 'Lady Cecily Mortimer' until she married my father. Sir John Tavington. My father was a baronet, a titled gentleman, and not a nobleman, and thus her name changed to Lady Cecily Tavington. Had he been a nobleman—a baron or viscount, or whatever—called 'Lord Tavington," she would have taken the name Lady Tavington. On the other hand, had she been born 'Miss Mortimer,' she would also have become 'Lady Tavington' upon her marriage."

Letty frowned. Moll's forehead creased with her confusion. Tavington could not let the matter go. 'If my brother, Sir John Tavington, married a gentleman's daughter, or the daughter of a baron or viscount—any lady addressed as 'Miss," she would be called 'Lady Tavington.' If, however, he married the daughter of an earl, marquess, or duke--a young woman who was already Lady Mary, Lady Elizabeth, or whatever—she would become Lady Mary Tavington."

Jane put in a word to help him. "In other words, your mother would feel demeaned in rank if she were addressed as Lady Tavington. We must always give her her due as the daughter of an Earl."

Tavington sighed with relief. "Yes. Exactly so. She never lets anyone forget it, and you must certainly not!"

Moll nodded sagely. "It won't matter much to me, Colonel. I'll always be saying 'Milady,' anyway."

"Perhaps so, Moll," Tavington agreed, "but you must know how to call her be her right name if you are sent on errands for her. If you speak of 'Lady Tavington,' no one will know who you mean—or they'll think my brother has recently married!"

Jane thought she could remember the proper title. "What about the rest of your family?"

"All right. My uncle, William Mortimer, is the Earl of Colchester. He is always spoken of as 'Lord Colchester.' His son has the courtesy title of Lord Sattersby. If that gentleman has married since I last saw him, his wife would be Lady Sattersby."

"What if she used to be a Lady Mary?" Letty asked nervously.

"Then she would still be Lady Sattersby. Her name in full would be Mary Mortimer, Lady—or Viscountess--Sattersby. There could be no such person as Lady Mary Sattersby. Calling her so would make you sound very ignorant. Now," he added thoughtfully, "you might sometimes hear someone informally called by her Christian name and her title. For example, Georgiana Cavendish, the Duchess of Devonshire, might be referred to as Georgiana Devonshire by a friend. Thus, while you wouldn't call my cousin's wife Lady Mary Sattersby, you might call her Mary Sattersby."

His listeners were clearly baffled.

"Anyway, you should know that my uncle has two daughters: Lady Anne, who married Viscount Trumfleet—she would, of course, be Lady Trumfleet—and Lady Sarah, who married Mr. Hawkins Bilsthorpe, and is thus Lady Sarah Bilsthorpe." I've not seen either of them in years, and possibly you won't either."

Letty blushed. Moll rolled her eyes discreetly, thinking it all much ado about very little. It was strange, what bees in their bonnets the quality had. The Colonel was a good man—none better—but it was clear that all this rigmarole was important to him.

-----

How the officers loved their little musical entertainment!

Jane kept her pieces short and light, not taxing the officers' patience. They were most appreciative, though, surprising her with their taste and appetite for music. In the end, she played more than she had expected, and was pleased by their approval.

Of course, Letty charmed them. She played two short dances herself, and then sang the song that Miss Gilpin had labored in vain to teach Jane, _A_ _Pastorale_ by Henry Carey. It was not technically very difficult, nor demanding in range, but it was a pretty, ladylike piece, and Letty felt very grand singing it. Standing straight, hands folded, eyes fixed just above the heads of her listeners, it was very delightful to perform for an audience.

_"Flocks are sporting,_

_Doves are courting,_

_Warbling linnets sweetly sing._

_Ah!_

_Joy and pleasure,_

_Without measure, _

_Kindly hail the glorious spring."_

On the "ah!" she sang a long, ornamented sequence, trailing down an octave, and she felt like an accomplished singer when she managed it well in one breath. Her audience begged for it again. At Jane's nod, she sang it again, and better. And then she gave them "The Bold Soldier," which delighted them, though Lieutenant Duckham though "sailor" could be better exchanged for "soldier."

And it appeared that the officers themselves were not without some talent.

Mr. Duckham leafed through Jane one thin collection of songs, and asked her to accompany him in a favorite. His light tenor voice was well suited to his song:

"_There is a lady sweet and kind,_

_Was never face so pleased my mind;_

_I did but see her passing by,_

_And yet I love her till I die._

_Her gestures, motions, and her smiles, _

_Her wit, her voice my heart beguiles._

_Beguiles my heart, I know not why,_

_And yet I love her till I die._

_Cupid is wingè__d and doth range_

_Her country, so my love doth change;_

_But change the earth, or change the sky, _

_Yet will I love her till I die."_

This was almost too pointed in praise of Letty, and Tavington wondered if he should have a word with the man. He was distracted by the appearance of little Mr. Midshipman Pevensey at his wife's elbow, earnestly asking her why they could not dance!

"Indeed, sir, I would dance with all my heart," laughed his wife, "but I must keep my post here at the instrument. My sister is the only other lady here, and I am sure she would dance with you, but a set is a difficult thing to arrange with only one lady!"

But Captain Ballantine, it appeared, had prepared for such a request. An able seaman of tidy appearance was summoned. This good man, it appeared, was a fiddler of some talent, and knew every dance men and women might wish to engage in. The ones he would play tonight were rather the more genteel of his repertory, but he could not complain of lack of enthusiasm.

There was just room for their dancing. Jane had never in her life danced so long: from "Gathering Peasecods," turning and clapping and bowing, to "Sir Roger de Coverley." The dances were short, as there were only two couples, but that was agreeable to the men, who did not have to wait long for their turns. It was, in fact, despite the endless rocking of the ship under her feet, and small and cramped and impromptu as it was, quite the nicest ball Jane had ever attended.

And Letty was radiant. She had danced, of course, but not like this. Even the dances she did not know well were easy to follow in such close quarters. If she was puzzled by the figures of the dance, Jane could tell her what to do. Her sister had gone to children's dance parties when she was a little girl, and had come home to tell Letty all about them, and to make her dance with her. This was the perfect chance to practice, before facing the terrors of a London ballroom. Best of all, these gentleman did not look down on her, or try to talk to her in a degrading way. There was just dancing, and plenty of it, whirling and weaving in the yellow light, as the fiddle sang on.

-----

On the middle leg of their journey, there was a stretch of exquisite peace. They were indeed in the very heart of the sea. Jane often stood on the gently swaying deck, looking in every direction, seeing nothing but the waves. It was possible to believe themselves the only people left in the world. The winds were favorable, and here on the North Atlantic Current they were making good time.

Below, in their cabin, Jane found having her handsome husband all to herself the nearest to perfect bliss she had ever known. They would lie nestled together in the narrow bed, talking of all sorts of things, and then indulging in exquisitely pleasurable play. William's clever hands always seemed to know where she wanted them. She did her best to please him, studying him at length by lamplight. Lying there, one arm behind his head, sprawled carelessly, his scars mattered nothing. Jane's fingers traced the sinews of arms and chests, and always wandered south, seeking out mysteries. He liked that well enough, but generally wanted more. Jane hands gripped him expertly now, rubbing and teasing and bringing him quick and poignant satisfaction. He purred, looking at her under his eyelashes afterward, as she tidied him conscientiously.

That night, that night in mid-July, when she knew she was whole again, she did more than that.

"IthinkImightbereadynow," she whispered in a single breath.

"What did you say?"

She felt hot all over, and repeated herself. "I think I might be ready now." Shyly she reached out for his hand, and brought it between her legs. William always seemed to understand what she wanted.

His fingers sought and stroked. He growled, "You seem so, but I would not hurt you. Are you certain?"

"Yes! No—I don't know. Could we not try? If it hurts, I shall tell you directly, and we will do something else. But I should like to try."

They rearranged themselves cautiously, and Jane trembled as she opened herself to her husband. A slow, gentle probing as he mounted her and eased himself inside. He grunted, restraining himself, but it was so tempting to go at her with all his strength. The muscles of his buttocks flexed, longing for more. At last—at last he was fully, blessedly sheathed, and began a long, careful stroke.

"Oh!" she breathed. "Yes, I think I'm quite entirely ready."

"No pain?" His breath was short and ragged; hers, too.

"Oh, no. It doesn't hurt at all. In fact, it is quite—opposite. Oh!"

His hips quickened the tempo, and she clutched at him.

"Does this hurt?" he grunted.

"Oh, no! It's lovely. Just like this—please, just like—Yes!"

It was hasty: it was over in minutes, but it was sweet nonetheless. Jane breathed out, deeply and gratefully, and held her husband close for a long embrace. And then, too soon, he was pushing himself off and rolling onto his back, with a sigh of satisfaction.

"Are you quite well, Jane?"

"Oh, yes! That was just as it ought to be. I am so happy we can be like this again. And now I know that I am healed."

"I am very pleased, too." Tavington leaned over and kissed her lightly; then subsided back into the hard, narrow bed. "It will make our voyage all the better. Otherwise, I might have had to ask Mr. Plumson to examine you."

"What a horrible thought! You must not tease me so. As if I would permit any man---except you, of course---"

Her husband laughed softly, a relaxed leg over her own.

Reassured that he could only be teasing, she agreed softly, "Yes, a very pleasant—diversion." Jane smiled into the dark, and expected she would sleep very soundly, but wanted to speak of something on her mind first.

"William?"

"Mmm."

"Do you think your mother will like me?"

Tavington's eyes opened instantly. _What to say?_ "She ought to. You're rather better than I deserve."

She smiled into the darkness, and pressed her cheek against his shoulder. "That's a pretty compliment, but it doesn't answer my question. Do you think your _mother_ will like me? Sometimes, when you speak of her, I feel as if you are not telling me everything."

_Surprises can be unpleasant things,_ he acknowledged. _She has asked, and she deserves the truth._

He took a deep breath. "My mother, dear Jane, likes very few people, and those few are old acquaintances. My mother does not believe in making new friends, as she believes she already knows everyone worth knowing."

A pause. Jane observed, "Perhaps it is too much to expect to be her friend. However, I will be _family._ She must be fond of her family."

_Worse and worse._ "She is often at odds with her family. Jane—my mother can be a rather exacting woman. No one has ever been good enough for any of her children. You will have noted that my elder sisters and my elder brother are unmarried. That is largely Mamma's doing. My sisters had many offers, but no suitors were quite up Mamma's standards—even the titled ones. There was always something wrong: too old, too young, too ugly, too handsome, too poor—for it is impossible for anyone to be too rich, in Mamma's estimation. I think also that she did not want to lose her daughters, whose companionship is so important to her. And then—her own marriage was unhappy, and she feared a similar fate for them. As to my brother—" _And myself_, he added silently.

He grimaced, unseen by his wife, remembering those ugly scenes. "—any young woman unfortunate enough to catch her son's eye was warned off pretty quickly. Mamma can be—caustic and disdainful. A young lady once fled her presence in tears and refused even to speak to anyone of us thereafter. Mamma feels that additions to our family are neither necessary or desirable."

Jane began to feel rather frightened. "But your sister—Mrs. Protheroe?"

"Lucy eloped."

"Oh, my."

"You might as well know the truth. Lucy was always a very pretty girl, and was a great success when she came out. She had splendid offers—even a Duke. Mamma would mock them behind their backs, tormenting Lucy about her admirers. It would be a brave man who would approach her. And then, a few years ago, Mamma decided that Lucy was "frail," and should no longer leave the house. I was in the Army by then, out and about, and did not see the worst of it, but I have heard from Lucy and others. By the time I was in America, she was virtually a prisoner. However, that did not mean that people did not call. The family attorney—or more properly, the son of the family attorney--visited on business a number of times, and Lucy managed to make his acquaintance. I know the Protheroes, including Edward, and knowing him, I found what happened very strange, since he is such a civil, cautious, prudent fellow—but one afternoon, when Mamma was out visiting, he called on John. Afterwards, he did not leave the house immediately—or alone. Lucy was received by his family and they were married. She seems happy."

"Your mother must have been very surprised." Jane smiled, picturing the angry dowager, like a hen robbed of her chick.

Tavington's next words threw cold water on her merriment. "She has never spoken either to Lucy or of her since. She considered it a dreadful abasement for one of Lucy's birth to match with a City lawyer."

"But the little boy—did not having a grandson soften her heart?"

Tavington sighed. Jane did not yet know Mamma. "How could it, when the boy would be the child of a degrading misalliance? Apparently she has done all she could to harm the Protheroes. Obviously, they are no longer in her employ. When last I heard from Lucy, they were still at daggers drawn. I pray that there has been a reconciliation since, but knowing Mamma, it seems unlikely."

"So—" Jane shivered. "—She's going to hate me."

"Hate—no, you must not think that. She will be put out, no doubt, that I have married without consulting her, but marrying you is hardly like marrying into the Protheroes!" He shifted uneasily. He was actually not entirely sure _what_ Mamma would make of his marriage. Jane had a fine fortune. _But it is not as large as that of Lady Dorothea Manners_. Tavington winced, remembering _that_ debacle. She was a gentleman's daughter. _She is_ _also_ _a_ _colonial, a provincial, the sort of person Mamma would scorn to notice_. She was a loyal wife and the mother of his child. _And those are things that Mamma would neither admire nor respect in one she may regard as an inferior_. Jane was—plain, and Mamma had been a great beauty, and valued beauty highly in women.

_Yes. Mamma is going to hate Jane._

Jane was beginning to believe it herself. Was this family she had so impulsively married into going to be any better than her own? Tavington broke into her thoughts with more cheerful reflections.

"Of course, we are presenting her with a _fait accompli._ I daresay when faced with a situation that she cannot change and that is unexceptionable in itself, she will resign herself. Caro and Pen will be delighted with you, and will be enchanted by the child. They love babies, and our family has not done particularly well at producing them. Nor Mamma's family, for that matter. My sisters will welcome William Francis whole-heartedly, that is certain. John would never be rude to a lady. As for Mamma," he added after another moment's thought, "I ask only that you treat her with the consideration and forbearance due her age and rank."

"At any rate," ventured Jane, "we surely will not be living long under the same roof. Surely we will find a house once in London."

"All in good time, Jane," Tavington answered sleepily. "I must get my feet under me first, and find out more about the regiment. It may be garrisoned elsewhere. Mamma has plenty of room, and London rents are very high. We will stay with her awhile. Besides, I want to enjoy the company of my brother and sisters, and have you become thoroughly known to them. It's all best done at the house on Mortimer Square…"

He fell silent, drifting into his usual sound slumber. Jane lay awake thinking, listening to the soft purring snores, the creak of the ship, the sound of the bell heralding a watch change. Restless forebodings plagued her, racing around her mind like runaway steeds. An exacting old woman who would actually lock up her own daughter—she could not be quite rational! Jane could not help but have even more uncomfortable reservations about her new in-laws. Time passed, and she knew that the baby would be waking soon and wanting her. She crept out of bed, and threw on her nightshift. The door latch rattled a little, but her husband slept on as Jane made her away down the short passage to the cabin Letty shared with Moll. She slipped inside and felt her way to the cradle. The baby was awake, making endearing little noises as she lifted him from the cradle. Moll's deep breathing paused, and Jane sensed her listening alertly.

"It's just me, Moll. I was awake anyway, and there's no point in making him scream for his milk. Go back to sleep."

She sat in the hard wooden chair and put her child to her breast, relaxing a little as she always did. When she allowed herself to dwell on the matter, she sometimes grew frightened for little Will. She must take good care of herself, for if anything happened to her and her milk, it would condemn her son to death, out here in the hopeless distances of the ocean. Forcing that hideous thought away, she stroked the small head. He was growing rapidly, and had continued to do well. Almost too well, for his newborn mews had evolved into full-throated screams when displeased, and Jane could see how they irritated her husband, in these close quarters. Better to prevent it coming to that whenever she could.

It was in these night hours of wakefulness that her thoughts turned dark, full of slights and old resentments. She would remember the hideous day in the coach, and brood over Biddy's death. She and William had never really spoken of that day, and it was like an injury that had scabbed over, but never fully healed. Despite all his talk about protecting her, he had never been present for the most terrible moments of her life: facing the militia who would have robbed her, the day of Hobkirk's Hill, and that day--that terrible day on the road. Yes, he had come at last--but too late to save Biddy. It was Moll who had held off the rebels while William had dawdled--_No! I mustn't think like that!_

But other treacherous thoughts rose up. In her trunk was her little box of letters from Ralph Manigault, still preserved despite her marriage. She had not thought of Ralph in over a year, but now, out on the ocean that had swallowed up her first love's life, he had become the companion of her solitary hours. With the sea beneath her very feet, she could imagine his last moments: thrashing, choking, hands reaching skyward in despair as he sank into oblivion. His image appeared in her mind's eye then, pale and scholarly as he had been in life. She wondered if he would think her faithless, or if he would wish her well. Who can know the thoughts of the dead? Who can know if the dead think? Jane could not bear to dispose of the letters, tender and eloquent, speaking to her of sentiments that she knew she had never awakened in her husband. The letters were part of her; something that had made her what she was. They were the last physical remnant of good, kind, clever Ralph on this earth.

Perhaps Ralph would have wanted to go to England, as the war turned ugly. He was no soldier, she knew, and he had so loved the university. Perhaps, had they married, they would have sold up already and gone to join his uncles' business in London. _In the City,_ Jane thought, remembering what Tavington had told her of London. _The City,_ so despised by Lady Cecily that she had disowned her own daughter for marrying one its sons. It did not seem despicable to Jane. But perhaps Ralph would not have wanted to go into trade. Perhaps they would be sailing to Jamaica or Bermuda or Ireland or India. Jane spun the threads of a thousand alternate lives as she held her baby in the darkness; but in the end, she had only the life she had chosen.

-----

William Francis had a temper, it appeared. He had taken to crying every evening between six and seven. It was an unpleasant hour for Jane. Her son did not wish to nurse; he did not wish to gurgle responsively at Moll; he did not wish to be cuddled by Letty. He wished to make himself heard, and heard he was.

His father, unsurprisingly, was no help at all. He had learned to take himself elsewhere just before six, and was not to be seen until the storm had passed. Little Will was red-faced and inconsolable for his hour of drama, leaving the three women who loved him exhausted.

Even Moll was at her wit's end. "He's such a fine little fellow all the rest of the time. Just turns into the very devil that one hour. I never seen the like! The colic, I reckon."

"Yes," replied Jane, exasperated, "The colic! _But what does one do_?" Her voice cracked, as she tried to be heard over the shrieks of fury.

"Don't know," Moll hallooed back honestly. "He'll grow out of it. They always do. From what I've seen, they settle down once they can get things in their hands right and play with them. Right now our little man can't do much but complain—can't hold anything or talk, but he can let us know he's plumb tired of it!"

"And why is always at the same time?" Letty wondered, feeling that she could not bear much more screaming.

"Well, as far as I can see, that's a good thing! If he does it and stops, then we know it's nothing wrong with him. I reckon he's just tired out after a long day, and is looking to let us know. I'll walk him around a bit. You two lie down."

There was knock at the cabin's door, at first not heard over the baby's howls. A louder knock, and Letty opened the door to find Mr. Plumson.

Jane did not particularly like the ship's surgeon. He was a remarkably unappealing man, with a red and warty face. He was untidy and smelled of spirits, and altogether seemed a heavier version of the odious clergyman Blethers. Dear, dead Biddy had always warned her about doctors, thinking them a pack of charlatans. Nothing roused her scorn more than men pretending they knew more about women than women did themselves. But Biddy was no more, and Mr. Plumson was at the door, little eyes already peering at her tiny son's face, as absurdly red as his own.

He bowed. "Good evening to you, Madam. The captain has sent me to examine the child. He was wondering if he were ill."

Moll held the boy closer. Jane moved in front of them both.

"Thank you most kindly for your attention. No, my son does not appear to be ill, but is fussy and irritable at this time of day. He should be quiet again shortly."

"Nonetheless, Madam, it would be remiss of me not to offer a professional opinion. May I see the child?"

There was nothing for it, and besides, this unprepossessing man might have some idea what to do. Jane nodded sharply to Moll, who extended the squalling infant to the surgeon.

Plumson took him with surprisingly ease, supporting him expertly. The astonished baby was startled into a moment's silence; but quickly burst into renewed shrieks as the surgeons' thick fingers prodded him.

The surgeon raised his voice over the noise. "Yes, the colic, Madam. I have some medicine that might be of use."

Jane shouted back. "Really?"

"If you would be so good as to provide a spoon, I have the medicament upon me. Here, my good woman," he said to Moll. "Take the child and hold him still while I administer the dose."

Moll took William Francis back into her brawny arms. Thinking anything would be an improvement, Letty rummaged through the trunk and produced the tiny silver spoon, grandly engraved with the baby's monogram and date of birth. Plumson withdrew a bottle from his pocket and poured not more than—"One, two—no, three drops! That should suffice."

Jane watched anxiously, as the surgeon dripped the golden liquid into the open pink mouth. The baby stopped in mid-scream, looked absurdly puzzled, and then frowned mightily. He licked his lips and was quiet. Blessedly quiet.

The women stared at the baby and each other in astonishment. The lack of noise was a presence in the room. Jane took a deep breath, and thanked Plumson. "I am more grateful than I can say, sir. May I know the name of the medicine? I might need to buy some in England, and must tell the apothecary."

The surgeon bowed. "Rum, Madam. Always the best medicine at sea." Another bow, and he was gone, leaving the three women struck dumb.

-----

"He gave our baby _rum!"_

"Very resourceful of him. I had not thought him so clever."

"But he gave our baby _rum!"_

"Yes, it worked quite well, didn't it?"

-----

**Next—Chapter 27: The Old, New World**


	27. The Old, New World

**Chapter 27: The Old, New World**

Through oceans rough with storms, and oceans smooth as looking-glass, the _Artemisia_ sailed toward England. It seemed a miracle to Jane that the Captain, with his mysterious charts and instruments, could find his way in all the featureless horizons of water that surrounded them. And yet he seemed perfectly at ease. Not only he, but the little midshipmen as well. Mr. Pevensey was an affectionate boy who had fastened on her, telling her of his mother's death, and how his uncle had sent him to sea, and that he liked it, and that Captain Ballantine was as fine a dashing fellow as ever there was, and that he had at last grasped trigonometry. Jane was glad for him, for she had not the slightest idea what trigonometry was herself. Mr. Pevensey's attempts to explain it to her were not a success.

Instead, they spoke of their families, and how sad it was not to have a mother. Jane needed occupation: and looked over all the boys' linen, much of which was in very sad repair. The days passed slowly, but they passed. Letty practiced music, and read, and worked on her sewing, and strolled the deck with Jane, generally with an officer or two as escort. Jane thought the role of chaperone a rather pleasant one. She could speak to the gentlemen herself without fear of being thought coquettish; she had the implicit right to guide Letty's conversation with them. Letty was careful to avoid countrified expressions, and more seriously, any hint of slave argot, at least in public. Jane gathered Letty enjoyed talking with Moll in the privacy of the cabin they shared, when she did not feel herself on display.

Tavington was only marginally aware of these currents. He had enough to think about on his own account. Let Jane care for Letty during the day. He was willing enough to do his part, setting a good social example over dinner, but he could not be tied to his women's apron strings constantly. His days were as slow as Jane's, but no less full. His notes, the orders he had kept, quartermaster records: all had been destroyed at the Cowpens. Now, he attempted to reconstruct them from memory, wishing he had undertaken this task sooner. He studied his calendar for 1780 and 1781, marking the days he had been in Charlestown, or on campaign, or in Camden. Jane, he found, had a good memory for dates, and also had kept the letters he had sent her, which were extremely useful. Foolish, indeed, to leave the tale of the Southern Campaign to his enemies and detractors. A pre-emptive publication would do much to sway public opinion in his favor. However, he must take care to be accurate as to dates and events, or he could discredit himself.

There were hours of leisure as well: Ballantine had a copy of the first part of Gibbons' amazing _Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire._

After the first few score pages, Tavington was already giving Ballantine earnest thanks.

"It is the finest modern work of history I have ever read. I had heard of it when it came out a few years ago, and wanted to read it to be _au courant._ I had no idea what a masterpiece it would prove, however."

Ballantine raised his brows. "Not offended by the man's views, are you? They raised quite a controversy among the devout."

"I have not read the entire work, of course, but it is clear that he holds that Christianity was a primary cause of the empire's decay. So far I find it very convincing. We are rational men, and should not fear to consider a well-reasoned argument."

"I am entirely of your mind, Tavington. Religion has its place, of course, but I have no use for the follies of enthusiasm. I had a lay preacher in my crew on the way out. Tiresome fellow, with a tendency to rabble-rousing."

Tavington expressed his sympathy. "Indeed, I think religion was a very good thing for women and the lower orders. I also feel strongly that one ought to respect the clergy of the Established Church. On the other hand, I cannot endure clergy pontificating anywhere but in the pulpit. If they think Mr. Gibbon wrong, let them defend their position from the historical record, not from Scripture, which, between ourselves, I suspect of having gathered a great deal of legend and superstition over the centuries."

"No doubt. But there will always be those who thump their Bibles!"

The two of them laughed, pleasantly in accord.

Other readings of a lighter sort amused them in the evenings. Grantley loved the theater: and had a copy of a recent success: Sheridan's comedy, _The School for Scandal._

Jane was entreated to copy out a few scenes—the merest trifle, she was assured--and then spent hours laboring at her desk to get the copies ready in time. By the time she was done, her hand was cramped, but everyone laughed over the plays. Tavington consented to take part, and was a wonderfully hypocritical Joseph Surface: all false sentiment and secret malice. Letty was a charming Maria: a young girl trying to make her away through the maze of society and its treacherous ways. To her husband's surprise and pleasure, Jane was a very good Lady Sneerwell: despite her Carolina drawl, she managed a witty, sardonic reading of that schemer.

Letty asked to read the entire play afterwards, and was somewhat bemused by it. So many of the characters were so wicked and devious. Above all, she felt sorry for Lady Teazle, a young lady from the country married to a rich old gentleman, trying to fit in her new world, and drawn into the mean-spirited raillery and intrigue of her associates.

She liked better _She Stoops to Conquer_ by Mr. Goldsmith, for the young heroine Kate was so sensible and strong, and triumphed so completely over all the obstacles before her. Mr. Grantley had seen the play acted, and assured her it was likely to be revived, sooner or later. Letty had never seen a play, and such a pleasure was high on her secret list of things to be experienced in London.

Now and then, when he was not writing on his notes, Tavington would tell his womenfolk more about his family and their history.

"John is the eldest of us: Sir John Tavington, Member of Parliament, and master of Wargrave Hall, our family seat in Essex."

"Is that far from London?" asked Letty.

"No, not at all," smiled Tavington, feeling rather nostalgic. "It is but forty miles or so: no farther than the distance between Charlestown and Monck's Corner. It is easily traveled in less than a day on the good road thither. When my father was alive, we spent a great deal of time there, and always from about July through all of Christmas. My father had to return to London, of course, for the opening of Parliament, but those wonderful months in the country always did us good."

"Is Wargrave Hall a very old place?"

"The current house is not as old as some, certainly, though the Tavingtons or their relations have held the property since the thirteenth century, when Richard Tavington married the heiress. The house itself dates from the sixteenth century, and was built during the reign of Elizabeth, when the old castle was pulled down and a more comfortable manor house erected a quarter of a mile away, on some lower ground. My brother and I often explored the old remains on the hill, looking for treasures."

"Did you ever find any?"

He laughed, "Naturally, or we would not have persisted! Among other things, John found an old axe-head, about which we invented a dozen gruesome tales. I myself came upon a penny with the head of Emperor Trajan. I don't recall what I did with it. I suppose it's somewhere at the Hall, or in my room at Mortimer Square."

Jane mused, "Such a grim name—Wargrave Hall. How did that come about?"

"Oh, no mystery in that. There was a great battle there in Saxon times against the Vikings. The dead were interred nearby and a barrow mounded over them, and the field is called Wargrave Heath. The closest village is Wargrave Cross. We're told that the Saxon lord had a fortress on the hill, and the Romans a villa before that. It would explain my coin. The estate is not far from the old Roman city of Colchester itself."

"And your uncle is the Earl of Colchester."

"Not entirely an accident. The Mortimers have been in Essex for some time, too, and the families have a long history together."

Jane sighed, and smiled at Letty, charmed by the tales of olden days. "Does your brother not spend much time there now?"

"Well, I don't know, actually. Obviously, I haven't seen John in years. I shall have to find out. It would be a great pity not to, though. The hunting and shooting are splendid, and the house a wonderful old place. My mother has never cared much for it, and always compared it unfavorably to her own family's seat at Colneford Castle. The truth is that she's simply not very fond of the country, and very much prefers a town life."

"I'm not surprised," declared Letty, "when I think about all the diversions of London. One could never be bored!"

"Spoken like a true Londoner already. I, however, prefer a balance. There's nothing like a gallop through the fields. I believe you will both be pleased with the old house. When we arrive in Portsmouth, of course, I shall hire a carriage to take us to London, and you will see some fine country as we pass through Hampshire and Surrey. It's a good time of year for travelling. I only hope you don't find London close and stinking when we arrive. Oh, it won't be as hot as Carolina, to be sure, but more people make more rubbish and a worse smell. And, of course, the smoke—well, you shall see for yourselves."

And so, the journey continued, with the occasional entertainment, the occasional dance, the frequent card games. Whist was the favorite, but not the only one: they played Quinze, and Laugh and Lay down, and sometimes the entire table played together at Snip, Snap, Snorem. The latter could grow quite boisterous; when the first pair was laid down, the player would call out "Snip!" When the third matching card was found, that player would shout, "Snap!" When the fourth card at last finally appeared, the player who laid it down was suppose to cry, "Snorem!" Actually, it was so exciting that everyone would shout it out, laughing uproariously. Even Jane was sometimes caught up in the fun of it, though when she returned to the little cabin, she would scowl over wasting an evening in such trivial pursuits.

It was just as well that they were so much in harmony, for ten weeks together on a little crowded ship was enough to try everyone's patience. Jane was tired of the close quarters, of the impossibility of bathing properly, of the rough seas that sometimes made her nauseous. Nothing, however, was as bad as the food. Or rather, as the food began to be after a month.

William had warned them about ship's biscuit, so she did not scream out loud the first time a tiny wriggling weevil fell to her plate as she was raising a bite to her lips. Instead, she set the biscuit down hastily. Captain Ballantine noticed, gave a hearty laugh.

"Here, ma'am," he said, rapping his own biscuit smartly on the table. "That is how we sailors deal with the plaguey things." Sure enough, the weevils fell out of the biscuit, which the captain calmly proceeded to eat. Jane smiled faintly, and decided she was not particularly hungry.

As they drew closer to their destination, the danger of meeting a French man o' war grew greater. The _Artemisia_ was a fine ship, but only a 74 gun vessel-"a fourth rate," in naval parlance, Captain Ballantine had explained.

And yet, the distant specks on the horizon told Jane nothing. Because she knew nothing of ships or rigging or flags, she did not understand her danger one day, their second day in the Channel, when a French vessel appeared. A pursuit at sea was a slow thing, but Ballantine and his men watched the ship nearing them with grim purpose for hours. The captain told Tavington about it, but the two men agreed that it was useless to frighten the women before time, and so Jane and Letty sewed and read, and chatted and tended the baby and napped, never knowing how close they had come to utter disaster. Moll, taking the air on deck, was told by the boatswain what was happening, but was cautioned to silence by Tavington. She did not entirely agree with him, but she was under his orders.

And in the event, it did not matter, for as the huge French ship began to close with them, two new specks appeared to the north: a pair of English ships, of the first-rate, and the French vessel broke off its pursuit, angling away gracefully, turning east and fading from sight, just as a dark line on the northern horizon declared their destination nearly achieved.

That was their last day at sea.

-----

They watched the coastline until it grew too dark to make out details. Jane was disappointed that they had arrived in twilight, unable to see much of Portsmouth or famous Spithead. They were bid kind farewells by their sailor friends. The little boys' eyes were big and red when Jane and Letty shook their hands. Letty's admirers hovered, seeing that nothing ill befell them as they were lowered from the ship to the waiting boat. Then they were rowed to the docks, and then there was some tiresome bargaining, while William hired someone to carry them and their belongings to an inn; and the baby cried; and Jane was too weary to take in much. Letty and Moll, however, were vexingly awake, aware, and exclaiming. Jane was interested only in finding a bed, and becoming accustomed to the strange stillness beneath her feet. She stumbled up the stairs on Tavington's arm, and was dimly aware of being helped out of most of her garments. Someone else brought the cradle into the room. Little William Francis, now nearly four months old, slept through the night, and when the shutters were opened the next morning, Jane was refreshed and ready to have a look at the strange new world in which she found herself.

The inn, large and comfortable, was called the Crown. The breakfast was excellent, if a little different than the sort she had enjoyed at home.

"Oh!" cried Letty. "Bread! It's been weeks!"

"Bread _and_ butter," Jane added. "This is glorious."

Eggs and sausage, some delicious honey, fresh fruit. It was marvelous. Tavington had his first proper breakfast in over five years, savoring every mouthful, happy that his women were happy. Moll, though a servant, ate with them in their private dining parlor, there to tend the baby if he lost his good humor. It was all very homelike and pleasant. He smiled at the women, watching them get up now and then to look through the window and admire the sight of an English street, which seemed very foreign to them.

"If you are equal to it," he promised, "I shall take you for a walk on the ramparts this afternoon, unless you are very tired of the sea."

"I am _very_ tired of the sea," Jane confessed, "but I should like to see it from the land, knowing that I'm done with it."

"It was all right," Moll said thoughtfully. "I can see why sailors like it. If I'd been at sea from a child, I'd feel the same. 'Course," she said, reaching for more bread and slathering it with creamy butter, "I can't say as I mind doing without weevils."

"Poor little Mr. Pevensey," smiled Jane. "He asked me to write to him."

Letty said nothing. Both Mr. Paget and Mr. Duckham had expressed some very fond sentiments that last evening, but she did not think they meant anything serious by it. The Colonel had warned her about romances aboard ship, and besides, she was too eager to see London to care for much of anything else.

Each in her own way, the three women found England a very odd place. The old buildings, the crowds of strangers, the quality of the light, the accents: it was not like home at all. Jane glanced at her husband, wondering at the faint little smirk on his lips. She could not know what he was feeling, which was immense satisfaction at being back in a place where he felt perfectly at home and comfortable.

The next day was Sunday, and they could not properly travel, but Tavington thought that all for the best. His party needed a little more time to prepare themselves for the last leg of their journey. Baths for all of them were procured. Jane and Letty's fresh habits were taken from their trunks, and duly aired and pressed. The two of them trimmed their hats anew, and Sunday saw them in all their finery. At dinner, Tavington announced their itinerary.

"We shall take the road up through Guildford. The best, safest route to London. And then, the next day will see us in the city, God willing."

They stared at the passing countryside as if they could never grow tired of the sight of it. At Guildford, they stayed at yet another splendid inn, The Red Lion. Tavington wanted them to rest as much as possible, because they would be extremely busy, once they reached the metropolis.

"I don't know about you, but I'll have thousand things to do there. I must report to Horse Guards, of course. I'll need to see my tailor and order new clothes. I should drop by my club and visit some friends. It's September, so most of them will not be in town, but you never know. I must hire a valet as soon as possible. You'll want a proper lady's maid, too, Jane. Moll has enough to do with the child, and you and Letty will want to be out seeing the town and meeting my family, not sewing! My mother can recommend a modiste, but you'll want your own woman to see to your clothes and so forth."

Letty opened her mouth, and then shut it. _That's true. I'm not a lady's maid, any longer. Will the maid take care of me, too? That would be—very strange._

-----

London crept up on them. They chatted on the road from Guildford, admiring the country in brief glances: green pastures, orchards, fields of grain. Jane felt more and more that she was in a profoundly foreign country. People in Charlestown had always spoken of England as "home," but she knew that this land was not the England of her daydreams, but a vital, dangerous, wayward creature; a place that cared nothing for her imaginings, a place that would reveal itself to her in its own way.

And so, after their halt at Esher, she suddenly looked out the window after another conversation, and she was nearly there. The sky had darkened. Houses had crept closer together, and had grown taller. The traffic of horses and carriage and wagon began to glut the thoroughfares, and the thoroughfares themselves rang with the new sound of iron horseshoes on cobblestone. The London road became a street winding through the little towns surrounding London, and Tavington smiled, looking very much at home. Letty and Jane looked at each other with growing uneasiness. Now that they had reached the environs of the city, they imagined they would soon arrive at their destination. But they were wrong.

"Oh, no! We've got another five miles at least."

"And it's all like this?" Jane asked, overwhelmed.

"Well, no—you haven't seen any of the big parks yet. We shall take a route by Vauxhall Gardens. When we cross the Thames, we'll head up past St. James Park to get to Mortimer Square."

Moll raised her brows at the mention of Vauxhall Gardens. That poor Evelina in the story the ladies had read had suffered some very frightening adventures in the Vauxhall Gardens at night. Moll held the baby a little closer, concerned that they would be in the vicinity of such a notorious place.

"Will we see St. James Palace?" squeaked Letty.

Tavington waved a gesture. "I promise you that we shall."

"But it's all London, isn't it?"

"Well, technically Mortimer Square is in Westminster, but yes, it's all London, really; though the City magnates might disagree."

The baby began fussing, evidently thinking it was time for another dinner, and Jane took him from Moll, who enjoyed the moment's freedom to gawk at the view and listen to the Colonel's commentary. Tavington liked his son, but was glad he was nearing the end of a long journey with a noisy infant. _I should be thankful that he's not sickly, but I am so very tired of the wailing._ He wrinkled his nose a little later. _And the smell. In a few years I daresay I shall enjoy playing with him, but for now…_

Letty felt even more overwhelmed than Jane, and muttered softly, "I've never seen so many white people in my life."

Moll gave a faint snort. "Never seen so many _people! _Swarming like ants on an anthill."

Even the signposts gave Tavington matter for conversation. The women were all well entertained as they turned due north through Lambeth. "And there are the Gardens!" He pointed, and was pleased at the response.

"They're so big! And walled all the way 'round!"

"Well, of course. It would be rather difficult to charge for the admittance, otherwise."

"Oh, look! There are the tops of the Chinese kiosques!"

Tavington did not like to repress their enjoyment, but knew what his mother would think of such enthusiastic gaping. "I hope you are not going to stare and point at every sight of London. It will rather give you away as new arrivals from the colonies."

Jane sat back with a sigh, and after a moment Letty followed suit. Moll continued to enjoy the unfolding scene. She smiled, not looking away from the window. "Don't rightly care if anyone thinks I'm new to the city or not. Why should I, when that's just what I am? This is a sight to behold, and I don't mean to blink and miss it!"

Tavington laughed, and after a moment, so did Jane and Letty, feeling better about themselves.

Jane replied to her husband, "I take your point, but there's no harm a little wide-eyed wonder amongst ourselves."

With that, she and Letty returned to the pleasure of sight-seeing. Westminster Bridge was before them, and the carriage slowed, unable to pass the vehicle in front. All the better, to savor the last, the very last leg of their journey, as the buildings grew grander, and fabled names rolled from Tavington's lips.

"Over there are the Houses of Parliament. That is Spencer House, and a very fine place, I think. Now, over on the right is St. James Palace." Jane and Letty caught each other's eye, both feeling very rustic and out of their depth. Neither of them had seen buildings like this before.

Jane cleared her throat, and ventured, "Do you suppose the King is there right now?"

"Unlikely in the summer. Now we are turning onto Bond Street. Not long now." Tavington might find the women's excitement amusing, but he was rather excited himself. There was Beverley's, his London tailor. Tavington almost hated to appear at that very exclusive establishment in his Charlestown-tailored uniform, but he would be there tomorrow to outfit himself in the plumage of the 3rd Dragoon Guards, and to make himself fit to be seen about town. And then, a visit would be paid to that wonderful barber-apothecary on Jermyn Street, and then a stop at the watchmaker's to have his own timepiece cleaned and repaired after all its adventures in America, and then he would have a quick, delightful visit with Lucy. Once he looked more like himself, he would be able to show his face at Horse Guards and at White's, and call on old friends.

"We will turn at the next corner. That is Mortimer Street, which will open up shortly into the square."

Jane and Letty exchanged anxious glances. The city was so much more immense than either of them had imagined, and they knew that they had seen but a fraction. For Letty, it was thrilling and magical, but for Jane there was a hint of menace in the magic. An uncomfortable feeling of insignificance had washed over her, as they had penetrated deeper and deeper into the city. At home, she had been the daughter of one of the South Carolina's most prominent men, and had always moved in the very highest circles of society. _And now,_ she thought, _I'm only the colonial girl that the impoverished younger son of a ruined baronet picked up during the war. I'm not a nobleman's daughter, or related to a member of the Cabinet. I have no connections here that can be of any service to me. Wait—I believe there is still a Manigault cousin who has a big warehouse somewhere in what William calls The City. Oh. No, I imagine that won't do at all. _Another shiver of misgiving chilled her, but she returned Letty's eager smile as the splendid open vista of Mortimer Square was revealed to them.

It was big, first of all: a great square of green lawn surrounded by tall buildings. In the center of the green was a huge fountain. On three sides, tall, red brick houses, mostly three stories tall, some with four stories: all with garrets above. Many of the houses seemed terribly narrow to Jane: a door and two windows to one side, pressed against its neighbor, for the houses shared walls, with no space between them. Jane felt a little concern about the noise. The south side of the square was completely taken up with a mansion bigger than any building Jane had ever seen in South Carolina: more a temple than a mansion, with broad steps leading up to a classically columned entrance. It was of stone, and as they passed around the square, Jane could see that there was a huge walled garden behind it, with a large stable and other outbuildings. She looked a question at her husband.

"Yes," he answered, "That is Colchester House, where my uncle lives when he is in town. I am most curious to know if he does still live. He and Mamma do not get on well, but he was always kind enough to me." He pointed ahead. "And you will see, on the opposite side of the square, that house near the center—not the one on the end—the one with the door in the middle and windows on either side. That is Number 12."

Jane felt relieved. The house was larger than many on the square. She had begun to wonder if Lady Cecily would find room for them all. Yet she noticed that the houses, while narrow, were deep. Perhaps it was only the great open space of the square that made them look small.

Moll spoke up. "What are those iron railings in front of all the houses? They all have 'em."

"Oh!" Tavington realized that none of his companions probably understood the plan of a London townhouse. "Those railings mark a place called 'the area,' which is the servants' entrance. Around the railing are the steps going down to the lower level, where the kitchens and work rooms are. Most of the menservants live there, and often the cook as well. The maidservants' rooms are at the top of the house. The nursery, too, of course."

"That's a lot of up-and-downing," muttered Moll.

"We'll all have our share, I imagine," agreed Jane. "But what a view you'll have!"

"That's right," replied Moll, face clearing, "I surely will!"

Their driver pulled the horses to a stop in front of their destination. Tavington barely restrained himself from bounding out, or uttering some inanity, such as—

"Here we are, at last!" He grimaced. It had slipped out despite his best efforts, but none of his companions had sneered. He must take greater care, in the more fastidious company here in town. The hired footman had jumped down already. Tavington stepped out, and drew a deep breath of Mortimer Square. Turning, he assisted the women out, passing the infant to Letty to hold, while Moll descended. The baby had awakened again, and was looking about with his dark blue eyes. He looked most engaging in his little cap, delicately embroidered shirt, and warm quilt of gleaming blue silk. Tavington could not resist leaning over to kiss his forehead and whisper, "We're home, my boy."

He strode forward to knock, feeling a flicker of fear. He had been gone so long—who knew what he would find here?

But almost immediately, the door opened, and a grey-haired servant cried, "Captain William!" The man stammered and bowed, "I beg your pardon, Colonel. I'm sure we're all very happy at your safe return."

Tavington beamed. Jane was startled at the look of undisguised joy on her husband's face. "Thank you, Rivers. It's good to be back."

"All the ladies are at home, sir. Her ladyship is upstairs in her boudoir, Miss Tavington and Miss Penelope are in the morning room—"

"_William!_ Oh, William!" Behind the servant, Jane saw a pair of well-dressed women rushing down the dim hall, arms opened wide. Her husband was engulfed by them: by crying, exclaiming, ecstatic women whose faces she could not see. They were still waiting outside, and Jane looked around embarrassed, seeing that they had attracted some notice from nearby servants and passing carriages. She forced herself to smile and be patient. No doubt had she been separated from loved ones for years, she might take her time greeting them, too.

"My dear sisters, I cannot tell you how good it is to see you both again! Here, let us take our reunion into the house---"

"Oh, of course, dearest. How silly we are, to keep you outside," said the taller of them, a slender, blue-eyed woman whom Jane could clearly recognize at her husband's sister. Beside her was a smaller, softer lady, with mild grey eyes, and plump rosy cheeks. The resemblance was not so strong here, but judging from her expression, this too was her sister-in-law.

The party flooded into the hall. Jane could manage only a few disjointed impressions of a handsome staircase and fine plaster moldings, when the taller lady continued, "Mamma said you were coming home to us, and we have been expecting you since the first of September—" At last she noticed that Tavington was not alone, and her eyes grew wide.

Tavington smiled again, radiantly. "Caro—Pen—you must meet Jane, my wife."

The two ladies stared at her in shock, but Tavington continued the introductions. "—And this is her sister, Miss Rutledge, our good servant Mrs. Royston, and that little morsel in her arms is your new nephew."

"A baby!" cried the rosy-cheeked lady. "You have a son!"

"Oh, how wonderful!" exclaimed her sister. Flushing, she curtsied to Jane. "I beg your pardon, ma'am. We are so astonished, but you are very welcome—and your sister, too. How do you do, ma'am: I am Caroline Tavington. William, you sly thing! Why did you not tell us there was a Mrs. Tavington?"

"I _did_ write—"

"No matter. Come, Pen! They must think us dreadfully rude."

Miss Penelope reluctantly tore her eyes from that sweet baby. "How do you do? I am very happy to meet you—to meet both of you. Miss Rutledge, is it? This is most exciting! Oh, my good woman, what a little angel!"

Tavington had known that the baby would delight them. "Sometimes," he agreed with a shrug. "Whereas my wife and new sister are well-behaved rather more consistently."

Miss Tavington took Jane's hands in her, her blue eyes searching Jane's face eagerly. "Mrs. Tavington! Just fancy! When did you marry? Where did you meet?"

Miss Penelope had questions of her own. "May I take him? How old is he? What is he called, William?"

Tavington raised his voice over the clamor. "His name is William Francis Tavington. He was born on the fifteenth of May of this year. You may hold him at your own risk. Mrs. Tavington and her sister are from South Carolina. We were married—" his declarations faltered.

"—On May twenty-first, 1780," Jane supplied blandly.

"Thank you, my dear."

Miss Penelope whispered, "He calls her 'my dear,' Caro! Charming!"

Miss Tavington caught her brother's eyes with a raised brow and merry smile. Jane was by now almost completely certain that she would like both of these women very much. She took Letty's hand, drawing her forward. "My sister and I are very obliged at your kind welcome."

"Oh, no! It is we who are so very—"

Another round of lively civilities ensued. Tavington's joy at seeing his sisters faded a little, as he looked more carefully, and saw that time had not dealt kindly with them. He had been gone over five years, and in that time his sisters had lost the last of their youth. It hurt him to see Caroline grown so thin, her face so pale and lined, and Penelope's soft beauty dwindled into plump middle age. He must look different, older, to them as well, but they had not yet noticed, or they were bearing it better, but Penelope's next words disabused him.

"Darling William! As handsome as ever! When one thinks of all you have endured in that dreadful place—oh, forgive me, ma'am—"

"Not at all," Jane managed. "It _can_ be quite dreadful at times."

Caroline interposed tactfully, "Mamma told us that you were very badly wounded earlier in the year, and we were so frightened."

"Yes—it was bad, but Jane nursed me through it. She and Miss Rutledge—and our good Moll here, too—looked after me, and I am quite myself now."

"Well!" cried Penelope, very favorably impressed, "then you are true sisters, indeed. How very pleasant to meet you. Will you be staying here, William, now that you are married?"

"I hope—" A ripple of motion at the corner of his eye distracted him. He looked up to see a silk-clad figure floating down the stairs.

"Mamma." She, too, had changed. Mamma had clung to her beauty desperately, and some of it still remained. Or at least, an image of it remained, painted subtly over her aging face, a mask to be shown the world, but not to be touched. She paused, slender and queenly, on the stairs, and then descended, one hand gracefully extended for Tavington to kiss.

"My dearest William. I thank God that you are returned to me."

"Dearest Mamma," Tavington turned and strode over to the waiting woman. His movement disclosed the presence of Jane, Letty, and Moll, still being greeted and exclaimed over. Lady Cecily's face grew still, but for her upper lip, which curled back in disgust.

"My dearest," she asked, in a clear, commanding voice, "Who are _those women_?"

-----

**Next--Chapter 28: Lady Cecily Tavington **


	28. Lady Cecily Tavington

**Chapter 28: Lady Cecily Tavington **

The elegant elderly lady stared down at them from the staircase.

"My dearest," she demanded with incredulous disdain, "who are _those women?" _

Tavington paused and glanced at the stone-pale face of his mother at her most forbidding. _Perhaps she did not receive my letter—No. Caro and Pen knew I had been wounded. All right. That's the way it's going to be-- _

"My dear Madam," he said, turning and leading Jane forward. "Let me present to you Mrs. Tavington, the former Jane Rutledge of Charlestown, South Carolina. With her is her sister, Miss Laeticia Rutledge. This is our servant Mrs. Royston, who is holding your grandson, William Francis Tavington. Surely you received my last letter, Mamma?"

"Indeed I did. I merely thought you were being your amusing, teasing self. I mean, who could credit—?" Lady Cecily remaining staring at them. Jane straightened her shoulders as her mother-in-law's gaze swept over her like a north wind, chilly, dispassionate. The regard turned her this way and that, considering, and ultimately discarded her worthless. Somewhat prepared, Jane only tightened her jaw. She had faced worse at home.

Tavington glanced at her companions. This was not going at all well. Jane's expression was the blank mask he had seen when she was at home with her family. Letty's eyes were humbly fixed on the floor, as she reverted to her usual demeanour from her slave days. Moll's face was growing dangerously red. Tavington had a brief, terrible, hilarious vision of their imposing Carolina nursemaid giving his mother the set-down of her life. _It must not come to that._

"I am so very happy to be home, my dearest mother," he told her soothingly, kissing her hand. "I thought only of coming to you at once. If, however, the house is unprepared for us, perhaps it is best if—"

Lady Cecily's expression flickered faintly with alarm. "Of course your room is in perfect order, my darling boy. I am overjoyed to welcome you home at last."

Jane watched her with cynical detachment. She would have been sorry for William's disappointment if his mother had declared there was, so to speak, no room at the inn; but she was not looking forward to being a guest under this woman's roof. Unfortunately, maternal love seemed to trump all else. _She may not want us, but she certainly wants _him.

Tavington gestured Moll forward. He smiled winningly at his mother. "Would you not like to see your grandson, Madam?"

"Bring the child here."

Moll stalked forward, thinking her precious little Will very unlucky in his grandparents. She held the infant out for inspection, eyeing the hoity-toity madam before her watchfully. Lady Cecily was considered a tall woman, but Moll towered over her by half a head—or would have, but for the lady's high piled hair, which gave her an extra ten inches of height. Moll wondered how such a mare's nest was kept so carefully arranged, teased and ratted and heavily powdered as it was. The pomade and perfume did not hide the smell of unwashed scalp beneath. _She must sleep standing up. I haven't seen so much paint since Liza Jane Stubbs spilled the whitewash._ Maybe this bedizened old quean would improve on acquaintance, and maybe not.

Lady Cecily made no attempt to take the child. She peered at him curiously.

"William Francis, you say?"

"Yes," Tavington said. "He was christened after me, and after our good friend Lord Rawdon, who is his godfather."

His mother assumed an air of puzzled innocence. "Lord Rawdon? I am not sure---"

"Lord Rawdon is the heir of the Earl of Moira."

"Ah. The _Irish_ peerage. Unfortunate."

At this point, Caroline came forward, and speaking very carefully, said, "They have come so far, ma'am, and it is already late. They must be very tired. Perhaps we should show them to their rooms, and let them refresh themselves a little before dinner. Would that not be a good plan?"

Jane thought it a capital plan, but everyone waited breathlessly to see what Lady Cecily would decide.

"Yes. Let it be done." Her mother-in-law collected herself, and began issuing commands to the butler. "See to the luggage. Mrs.—" she paused "--_Tavington _is to have the Willow Room. Her sister may have the Dutch Room. Have the servant shown to the nursery. We shall dine in an hour, Rivers. Inform the cook of the additions." She touched Tavington's cheek. "My dearest."

Turning, she swept up the stairs, out of sight. As soon as she was gone, sighs of relief were heard all around. After a few more civilities, the Tavington sisters led their guests upstairs.

Rivers had summoned help, and three footmen appeared. Rivers muttered, seemingly not intending to be heard, "There'll be hell to pay in the kitchens! A word of warning would be too much to hope for—"

He went outside to the carriage, and his complaints changed to quick, efficient commands. He told Tom, one of the footmen, to "show Mrs. Royston to the nursery, and help get her settled. Call down Sarah and Dorcas to clean the place a bit."

Tom was the tallest of the footmen. He looked to be a bit under thirty, and was a fine, strapping fellow, in Moll's opinion. He eyed the of the trunks and boxes piling up in the hall.

"This lot yours?" he asked, pointing to Moll's little trunk, on which Moll had carved 'M. Royston' with her clasp knife.

"That's mine, and the big workbasket, and the long bundle in canvas. This little mite's cradle is on top of the coach, and that—' she nodded at a trunk larger than her own, "holds his linen and such. I reckon I'd better have a look at this nursery." "

"Then, Madame," declared Tom, with a sweeping bow, "Permit me the honor of showing you the back staircase of Number Twelve, Mortimer Square—the _proper_ staircase for the likes of you and me!"

Moll laughed. Tom hoisted her trunk easily up on one shoulder, and then slipped the handle of the workbasket over his other arm, picked up the canvas wrapped musket, and led the way. Moll followed, thinking Tom's appearance from behind equally admirable.

-----

Jane did not want to gawk, but she was trying to take in as much of the house as she could. It really was much larger than it had seemed from the outside. The staircase was to the left of the hall as they came in. To their right, she caught a glimpse of a large, elegant dining room.

Caroline understood her curiosity. "I shall show you everything later, but of course you want to know your way about the house. Behind the dining room is the morning room, where Pen and I spend much of our time."

Jane noticed that the doors on the other side of the hall were closed. Caroline said nothing about them, and Jane did not like to pry. No doubt all would be revealed in good time. She heard Letty's faint intake of breath and looked behind to see Letty gazing at the ceiling, transfixed. Above them was a circular skylight, diffusing light down the staircase. Jane paused to admire, herself. Tavington pretended to be indifferent, but was very pleased at her liking a feature of the house that was one of his own favorites.

"Yes. The oculus. It's very nice, I suppose. At least, one can see the steps without stumbling!"

Caroline took up the description. "And now here we are at the first floor." She pointed to the arched door of a room that faced the square and was over the dining room. "There is the drawing room, where we shall have our tea after dinner. Behind it is the music room. The rooms are separated by folding doors, and thus can be combined for very great occasions," she laughed, with a hint of deprecation.

"And on this side by the staircase?" Letty asked. These doors, also were closed. She was enchanted with the house, and loved even the halls, with their beautiful plaster medallions and scrollwork, standing out pure white against the sunny yellow of the walls.

"The ballroom," Penelope told her, rather subdued. "It has not been used in some time."

They continued up another flight of steps, which led, Caroline, told them, to "the second floor. Our bedrooms are here." This hall was plainer, and bisected by a transverse hall, which was dotted with doors. Caroline led them to the side over the ballroom. "You shall have the rooms opposite Pen's and mine. Will that not be pleasant?" She seemed a little uneasy, and Jane wondered what troubled her.

There was another flight of stairs, and Caroline smiled at Jane. "Those lead above to the nursery, where we shall go after dinner. You will see that the little one is perfectly comfortable."

Tavington considered turning aside and going to his own room directly, but decided it would be better to see his ladies situated. He could not remember the Willow Room, except that he thought it was green. Jane should like that, he hoped. What he principally recalled was that it was the room furthest from his own. He muffled a snort. Mamma was a fool if she thought the length of an upstairs hall would keep him from sleeping with his wife.

They reached the first door. Penelope told Letty, "This room was our sister Lucy's. But don't tell Mamma we spoke of her. It is forbidden!"

"Still?" Tavington asked Caroline, in an undertone. She bit her lip, and nodded sadly.

The door was opened, and damp, musty air struck them in the face. Letty's gasp of delight prevented Jane from making any comments about the unprepared state of the room. It had been closed up for quite awhile, Jane guessed—possibly since Tavington sister had eloped, which would be at least three years. Nonetheless, it was a handsome room, and Letty was enchanted with it.

"Oh! How pretty! How pretty!" Letty cried. She ran to the fireplace, which was decorated in blue and white tiling. The bed curtains were a printed toile in the same colors. "I love blue!"

"Those tiles are Delft," Penelope informed her, pleased at the sweet girl's pleasure. "Thus, the 'Dutch' Room."

Letty did not know what "Delft" was, but it was obviously something rare and beautiful.

The servants arrived and her luggage was sorted out.

"Betty," said Caroline to a maid, "help Miss Rutledge unpack, and put the room in order."

Seeing Letty happily occupied, Jane thought she could move on to see the "Willow Room," that Lady Cecily had so pointedly assigned her. She had no idea where Tavington's room was, but she was certain he could find her if he so wished.

"Now, my dear Mrs. Tavington," Caroline said with some embarrassment, "the Willow Room has not been used for years, but I am sure that we can—" she opened the door.

If Letty's room smelled of damp, this smelled of mildew and mouse droppings. It was a very old-fashioned room, Jane saw at once, with furniture much darker than her own taste—much more in the style of her grandmother's day. The one attractive feature was the mantelpiece of mellowed white marble, carved with willow boughs. The drapes were of dark green velvet, giving the room a funereal appearance. White sheets covered much of the furniture like ghosts. A tall, massive oak wardrobe loomed over the room like a tombstone. Jane sighed, feeling the weight of Lady Cecily's opinion of her behind this choice.

Caroline had faltered, but smiled bravely, and finished her thought—"I'm sure it can all be put to rights very quickly. Jenny—" she directed a tiny maid, who could not have been more than thirteen. "Open the shutters and air the room thoroughly before you light a fire."

Jane smiled back at her new sister, just as bravely. "I shall be perfectly comfortable, I assure you. It is a splendid old room. I must tell you sometime about traveling through the backcountry and sleeping on a cornshuck bed. A little dust and must is a mere nothing." She caught her husband's expression, and lifted her chin in mock defiance.

Tavington, in his turn, flinched in mock alarm, but was torn between relief at Jane's well-bred acceptance of these shabby quarters, and irritation at his mother's calculated insult to her new daughter-in-law. He excused himself, having seen enough. "I shall meet you—" he consulted his watch—"in twenty minutes, in the dining room."

"Twenty minutes!" Caroline echoed in fright. "Pen! Hurry!" She turned hastily to Jane, "Excuse us, my dear, and Jenny, help Mrs. Tavington change for dinner! Excuse us!"

She and her sister vanished into their own rooms, and Tavington strolled away, down the long hall. Jane watched him, too tired to feel much resentment at the moment, and busied herself with the problem at hand.

A manservant came forward, and asked, "We have brought your belongings, ma'am. Is this everything?"

Jane looked at the pile of luggage. Big trunk, small trunk, book trunk, bandboxes, crate of linen—which seemed superfluous, but might not be--crate of silver and china— "I have also a small spinet, which is on top of the coach. That is mine. Fetch it, and assemble it—there," she ordered, pointing to a corner by the window.

The maidservant unlatched the shutters and the grey light of the London sky flooded in, along with a strong scent of coal smoke. Jane shrugged. That was part of London, too, and better than the scent of mildew. Wondering about the view from her window, she walked over, twitching the dust covers from the furniture as she passed. Jenny followed her, picking up and folding the sheets, placing them in a tidy pile on the floor.

The opened shutters revealed the stableyard and the little outbuildings behind the façade of the great square. Shabby little houses rose up from the lane, and along with them the faint stink of urine and rotten food, noticeable even at this height from street level. Beyond was a vast landscape of roofs and chimneypots and distant, tall church spires. It was not the glamorous view of the square that the rooms opposite must boast, but Jane felt her spirits rising a little. This was _London,_ the dream of so many years, and now revealed as far greater than any of her imaginings. Even the dark, shabby back alleys were somehow awe-inspiring. Yes, she was in London, and that was something.

However, the view would not help her deal with shortcomings of her new bedchamber, and she set to work to know every inch of it, starting with the most important piece of furniture. The bed was carved dark oak, and was covered with a stiff coverlet of deep green that matched the hangings. It looked imposing, in a very old-fashioned way, but it positively reeked of mildew.

She told the little maid, "After you finish unpacking, remove that coverlet and take it somewhere to be aired. I cannot possibly sleep with such a smell. If the mattress is sound, make up the bed with some of my own sheets and quilts from—that—crate. " She grimaced. If the mattress were to be mildewed as well—which it might well be—there would be no replacing it on short notice. She might well have to buy one herself, and it would take time to have one made to the exact dimensions of this great bed.

"Yes, ma'am." The little girl, bustling about her work, opened the wardrobe and uttered a squeak of outrage. There was a faint echo of her squeak from the wardrobe. Jane glanced up and came closer. Inside the wardrobe lay the remains of a silk coverlet wrapped in paper. It had become a large and comfortable mouse nest, and shreds of tattered silk and scraps of paper drifted out through the opened door.

"Ugh!" cried the girl. "You wicked little villains!"

"Well," said Jane sourly, "clear it all out after I have dressed for dinner. We can put my clothes away later. There is a green silk in the big trunk. Does this house have a water closet?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am. On this floor, behind the back stairs." She dropped her voice. "But her ladyship don't like anyone else using it."

"Indeed. I thank you for your warning." She took a look under the bed. No chamberpot was in evidence. There must be _something. _

There was. On the other side of the bed, behind a screen, a small oak chest opened to reveal a commode. The pot was below and full of spiders.

"Clean this out as well, and I will want some hot water tonight. Is there a bathtub in the house?"

"Yes, ma'am, but her ladyship—"

Jane gritted her teeth, and heard the girl out. It appeared that a very ornate and elegant bathtub was generally in Her Ladyship's boudoir, and a petition must be directed to that great lady, if it were to be moved to another room. "Is there no other tub in the house?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am—there is a little rusty old tub in the attics, but 'tis a shabby thing—"

"Will it hold water?"

"Well—yes, ma'am."

"Good. Have it brought down here, and place it behind the screen. It will do for me and for my sister while we are here. Tomorrow we shall bathe." She already knew she had no desire to ask Lady Cecily for the favor of anything so intimate as a bath. It was quite bad enough that she must now go downstairs and dine with her.

The stool before the dressing table was covered with green morocco leather, cracked with age. With a frown, she seated herself on it, staring with dissatisfaction at the dim mirror and her plain, pale face reflected in it. She blew out a breath, and attempted to tidy her hair.

-----

Moll followed Tom, the tall footman, to the very top of the house, admiring a man who could keep up a friendly conversation while carrying a heavy load up the endless narrow stairs. By the end of them, the walls had become the plainest yet, covered with just a coat of whitewash.

Tom stopped before a door, and declared. "And now, Madame, I give you—the nursery!"

He set down his burdens before the door, and swung it open with a flourish. Moll beamed in surprise and pleasure. _Now this is a right nice place!_ she thought, admiring the generous space and the wide glass windows overlooking the square. It was a little dusty, but Moll knew how to deal with that. It was big, bigger than the whole cabin she and Bob Royston had built, even counting the lean-to and corncrib. She was impressed by a huge cradle, covered in gilding, with a coat of arms on the wooden canopy. It smelled a little. Moll stood back, still holding her little charge closely. "This little man's used to the cradle we brought. You could set a half-dozen of him in this thing. Put a sail on it, and you could go to sea!"

"Well, the quality are a rum lot, you know—a thing ain't the thing if it ain't twice the size it needs to be. I'll send some help your way, and go fetch the rest. Until we meet again, fair lady!" He waggled his brows at her outrageously, and she shook her head, laughing.

She confided her pleasure in dozy Little Will. "Well, boy, there's one good-humored body in this place. That's a comfort!" She looked around the room, and said in wonder. "It looks like you'll have all the playthings you'll ever need, and then some!"

The nursery was a treasury of rich children's toys: more than Moll had ever seen. A battle-scarred but magnificent rocking horse, a pair of stick horses, cricket bats, the most elaborate Noah's Ark imaginable. On a low table, surrounded by child-sized chairs, was a beautiful little dollhouse, with perfect tables and chairs and beds. Moll promised herself the pleasure of cleaning it up and playing with it a little herself. Three exquisitely life-like dolls gathered dust on a shelf_. Looks like those girls need their linen laundered. And I'm just the one to do it! _She found a plain wooden chest and looked inside. Smaller toys were piled inside: game boards and scattered puzzle pieces; tops and balls, battered toy swords, letter blocks and forsaken puppets, their arms flung wide like the dead on a battlefield. There were things that Moll could not identify. No doubt Mrs. Tavington could tell her the names of some of the wonders.

It was a well-furnished room, too. It was full of good sturdy furniture, strong enough to last, and not so fancy as to be ruined by children's play. A pair of children's cots, a good table with a pair of benches on either side. A high chair, forgotten in a shadowy corner. She turned and looked at the rest of the room. Another, larger bed was in the corner furthest from the fireplace. "Bit small for me, but I can make do." The fireplace itself was small, with a stout metal screen, but with plenty of room to heat up the dusty iron teakettle on its little iron hook. A big oak cupboard promised more treasures, when she had time to go through it. A comfortable wooden chair, that looked just her size, was near the window.

"Moll, old girl, your luck has turned at last."

The Colonel's mother might be a haughty piece, but she had a fine house. Moll would not see much of her, probably, and would have this large and magnificent room to raise the baby in. She smiled broadly, and pulled the big chair closer to the window. Sitting down to admire of the view of the great green square, the splendid houses, and beyond, the huge palace the Colonel had called Colchester House, she sighed with pleasure.

-----

Awkward as the occasion was, Tavington was enjoying his after dinner tea. His next day was agreeably planned out in his mind. He was still aglow from the pleasure of finding his own room just as he had left it—as if he had been away only for a brief visit at a country house. It was almost as if the war had never happened. Only the very real presence of Jane, sitting stiffly on the yellow silk of a drawing room sofa, her emerald green gown standing out against it like the lush swamps of South Carolina, reminded him that there was a world far from Mayfair and his family. Letty was beside her, knuckles whitening as she clasped her hands tightly in her lap.

His wife and sister-in-law looked like a pair of schoolgirls called before the Headmistress for some escapade: one terrified, the other defiant. Mamma was playing the role of stern Headmistress rather too well, he reflected. She was interrogating the girls relentlessly. No—interrogating Jane. His wife was his mother's target, and she had no time for lesser victims at the moment.

"And what trade does your father follow?"

Tavington shut his eyes.

Jane smiled slightly and unpleasantly, and replied with only the tiniest edge to her voice. "My father is not in trade. He is a planter of rice and indigo. His principal seat is Cedar Hill, an estate of some eight hundred acres. He has numerous other properties which consitute an additional acreage of six hundred or so."

"Very extensive!" Penelope murmured encouragingly, and then fell silent as her mother's cold gaze fastened on her.

After a moment, Lady Cecily's attention was once more fixed on Jane. Tavington's mother abruptly observed, "I daresay that you had never imagined yourself connected with a noble family, Mrs. Tavington. In the ordinary way, of course, it could never have happened. War, alas, is a great leveler. Soldiers come upon all sorts of odd people, when they are posted to remote and barbarous outposts, far from all decent society."

Burning resentment flickered to life behind Jane's blank gaze. Her smile remained fixed. "Certainly soldiers do meet a great variety of people. As to the society of South Carolina, you must apply to your son for his judgement on its decency, as he has seen it for _himself." _

Tavington fidgeted slightly. _Oh, Mamma, can you not be civil, even for my sake.? She is here and there's nothing to be done about it._ He took another look at Jane's face and nearly groaned aloud. She was looking positively mulish. She might have disliked her life in South Carolina and even criticized the people there herself, but in the face of his mother's attacks she seemed to feel perversely obliged to defend her birthplace and all its inhabitants.

His mother studied Jane as she would a fly in amber. "Such an odd manner of speaking, too. That accent—it puts me in mind of those Negroes who performed songs and dances at Lord Duncannon's fete. Are you of African extraction, Mrs. Tavington?"

Tavington hissed warningly, "Mamma!"

Letty nearly jumped from the sofa. Jane grasped her hand, holding her down without looking at her, staring at Lady Cecily darkly. "No," she replied with brittle clarity. "I am not."

"Curious, then—but you do sound—how amusing…"

Tavington caught his mother's eye. Something in his gaze must have warned her that she had gone too far, for she changed the subject. "Are you musical, Mrs. Tavington?"

"I play a little, as does my sister—"

"Jane plays extremely well, Mamma," Tavington declared, "and Letty sings charmingly. We are hoping to find her a first-rate master while we are here in Town."

Caroline brightened. "Oh—well—that is most delightful, and we know just the man—"

Lady Cecily cast an appraising look at Letty, who dared not look back. She asked—or rather, repeated, "_You_ play," looking at Jane. Her gaze shifted to Letty. "And _you_ sing."

"A little, Lady Cecily—" whispered Letty, terribly embarrassed.

Lady Cecily considered them. "I wish to hear you."

Letty's eyes widened. Jane smiled frostily. "Of course, ma'am, if it pleases you."

Tavington interposed firmly. "It must be tomorrow, my dear mother. We have had a wearying journey."

"Very well—I suppose. Tomorrow without fail."

Jane turned to Caroline and Penelope. "Colonel Tavington has told me that you are both delightful performers. I so look forward to hearing you."

"Oh!" protested Penelope. "A brother's partiality!"

"We are indeed, very, very fond of music," Caroline assured her, looking at her with ever increasing interest. "It is one of our chief pastimes." She threw a cautious glance at her mother, who radiated displeasure. "Of course, we do not perform outside the family anymore—"

"No, indeed," Lady Cecily snapped. "No one is interested in a pair of spinsters!"

Caroline bowed her head in submission, but Jane thought she saw a hint of irony. Caroline's eyes met hers, and Jane decided to ignore her mother-in-law's rudeness to her own daughters.

"I look forward to many pleasant hours spent at music together."

Lady Cecily sniffed.

Another pause in the conversation. Tavington broke the silence with, "Where is John?" He was looking forward to seeing his brother. Caroline and Penelope looked at each other, and then at their mother.

Lady Cecily remarked carelessly, "Your brother does not often find the leisure to dine with us. His seat in Parliament causes him to be engaged in affairs of national importance. I hope to see him later tonight, but I think it unlikely."

Penelope smiled weakly at Jane. "Our brother has so many good friends. They quite engross his time."

"I see."

Tavington fidgeted in his chair. _Damn._ Jane was not looking happy. Of course it must be very odd and uncomfortable, coming to make her home in a strange city and a strange house. She looked tired and rather chilled, too. Her shoulders hunched the way he had noted in the past, when she was feeling overwhelmed. Her face was blank, but it was not serene. Her eyes were wary and embattled, as if she expected another attack at any moment. It was, in fact, the same expression she had worn when they had first met. Mamma was being horrid, but Jane must know it meant nothing. It troubled him a little, but she would adapt to her new surroundings, as she always had before. That was a great comfort. Jane was very adaptable indeed.

He took even more comfort in Letty's air of wonder and awe. His mother had not deigned to speak to her after her demand that she perform tomorrow, but had cast a few brief glances her way. At least she had said nothing directly unkind to the poor girl. He refrained from staring at her himself: she seemed not to want anyone's notice, and sipped her tea as if imagining herself invisible.

So he engaged Mamma in the kind of chat she had always preferred: a review of great names and their current deeds. He was informed who was in town, and who was not; he was told the current dull state of the Court, unchanged in the years he had been gone, except for the introduction of the King's older daughters, whom his mother considered absurdly over-educated and as dull as the rest of "those Germans."

Lord Ravenswood, his mother's faithful old friend, and the patron whose influence with the Secretary at War was responsible for Tavington's promotion, was in his house at Richmond, and no doubt would be delighted to have Tavington wait upon him as soon as possible. Lady Cecily hinted that "soon as possible," meant exactly that.

Tavington assured his mother that as soon as he was fit to be seen about town, he would do so. "Of course, I must report to Horse Guards tomorrow. I have a few other errands that cannot be delayed. After that, I should be only too delighted to pay my duty to the old gentleman."

"Other errands?" His mother let the suspicious words hang in the air.

"I must see my tailor as well. I've nothing but uniforms, and can hardly wear them about town when I am not on duty. I shall send a note to his lordship, and visit him within a few days. I must also hire a valet."

"I should say so," agreed his lady mother. "Perhaps someone who can do something with your hair! Really, my dear—so severe, so utterly without style! And no powder at all! You like as if your _wife_ dressed your hair!"

Jane, who had in fact dressed her husband's hair that morning, merely raised a brow at her husband, who scowled back, saying, "I have been at war, Mamma, and have had things to think about other than my hair!"

His mother's bland look of aristocratic indifference cracked slightly. "You wrote that you had been wounded. Should a physician be summoned? Are you entirely recovered?"

At last. A chance to bring Jane into the conversation. "I need no physician, Madam. I was cared for by my dear Jane, and she would not permit me to be injured any longer than absolutely necessary. She quite scolded me into health, did you not, my dear?"

Jane dismissed this with a polite smile. "I had expert assistance, not the least in your strong will and sound constitution."

Lady Cecily did not immediately respond to that, leaving his sisters to beg for details and commiserate over his sufferings. After their expected exclamations of horror and relief, his mother abruptly told him, "I saw Lady Dorothea Manners with her mother the Duchess yesterday. Such a lovely girl. She will be crushed when she hears of your marriage. I always liked Lady Dorothea. She is _my_ idea of the perfect young lady: accomplished, elegant, well-bred, and of the finest blood in the land. Such a pity—"

"Really?" Tavington smirked. "I seem to recall that you thought her nose much too long; her hands ill-shaped; practically no chin at all; no wit, no spark—"

"She is greatly improved," Lady Cecily informed him repressively.

"I am delighted to hear it," Tavington purred. "I am shocked that such a paragon has not been swept to the altar. The youth of England are to be reproached."

"And alas, Lady Georgiana Howard is to be married." She gave him a look under her painted eyelashes.

Tavington had not spoken to Georgy since she had rushed, sobbing, from the rotunda of Ranelagh Gardens, the victim of his mother's malice. He forced himself to speak. "A pretty girl, as I remember. Does she still write verses?"

A very faint smile of satisfaction appeared on his mother's face. Tavington felt it boded no good for anyone. His mother said sweetly, "She is wittier than ever. Lady Georgiana was always a particular favorite of mine."

Tavington refused to let that pass. "Odd. I was under the impression that you did not like her at all."

"You were mistaken, my dearest."

"Really?" Tavington was tired of this nonsense. "It is of little moment. We are here in London to renew family bonds and to be happy, and the current marriage market is not of—"

"Speaking of the family, your cousin Sattersby is married as well."

_Thank God,_ Tavington sighed to himself. _Let us get away from the subject of the women Mamma now thinks I ought to have married! _"Indeed. I am happy for him. Who is the lady?"

She said, "The Honorable Miss Catherine Mitford. The new Lady Sattersby plays the harp exquisitely, and is quite a Queen of Fashion. One cannot be surprised. She was a success from the first season she came out. And such a splendid dowry!" With generous condescension, she shared the details with Jane. "No less than fifty thousand pounds, and a superb estate in Dorset. She has made Sattersby quite independent of my wretch of a brother. Such a pity, William, that _Sattersby_ should snatch such a prize!"

"I don't remember Miss Mitford," Tavington answered, profoundly bored.

"No, of course—she came out after you were gone to _America_." The last word was uttered with a sneer at the Americans on the yellow silk sofa.

Tavington observed, "I hardly see that coming home a bachelor would have helped me win Miss Mitford, as you say she is already married to Sattersby. May they be happy. Now tell me, Mamma: is there anything worth seeing at the Theatre Royal?"

He was assured that it was all very dull at the moment, due to the stupidity of so many men spending this season in the country, shooting and hunting. "Vauxhall and Ranelagh are still open, to be sure. No doubt they will be a novelty and wonder to visitors from the Colonies."

"I look forward very much to seeing all the novelties and wonders London affords," Jane replied, suspiciously wide-eyed. "But I fear I must excuse myself from this delightful _rencontre_ and go up to the nursery. William Francis must be hungry by now."

-----

Jane laughed to herself, as she nursed her little son, enjoying the twilit view of Mortimer Square that Moll had been eager to show her when Jane appeared at the nursery door. Lady Cecily had been appalled that she was nursing her own child. It was not done. It was uncouth. Miss Tavington had rather spoiled her mother's disapproval, by daring to remind her that Lady Spencer herself had given suck to her latest child.

"The Spencers!" Lady Cecily sneered. "I know them of old. A Bible on the table and a pack of cards in the drawer!"

Undaunted by her mother-in-law's contempt, Jane had succeeded in escaping the 'delightful _rencontre_" in the drawing room, and Letty and her sisters-in-law had fled with her, all eager to see a child once again in the long-deserted nursery of Number Twelve.

She was pleased with Moll's touching exultation in the nursery and all its conveniences. "I do not know how long we will be here, Moll," she warned her.

"No matter, ma'am. I'm all set to enjoy it, however short the stay!"

Caroline and Penelope were pleased with Moll, if a little in awe of her size and the fact that she had a musket mounted above the fireplace.

"Your husband was a soldier?" Caroline asked.

"That he was, ma'am. A sergeant, and a good 'un. The Colonel can tell you he never shirked. But that there's my own, handed down from my Pa. You might say that's _my_ family heirloom. It did good service in the war, if I say so myself."

Caroline looked a question at Jane, who nodded, firmly and gravely, and whispered, "I shall tell you more someday. Moll defended us bravely in a most desperate circumstance."

Moll was still pacing the room, gesturing extravagantly at all its beauties, praising the furniture, the view, the obliging nature of the footman and the two maids who had assisted in putting the nursery to rights.

Letty was enjoying the view, too, joking with Moll about the grandeur of their neighbors. She asked Penelope, "Is that really your uncle's home, over there? It is so impressive!"

"Yes, indeed," Penelope assured her. "Dear Uncle Colchester is up at Colneford Castle, right now, but I expect he will return after Christmas. He always does."

"And then he calls on Mamma, and they quarrel, as they always do, and then we don't speak again for five or six months," Caroline added wryly. "It's a pity. He is our only other near relation, and he was always a good influence on John." She stopped, obviously thinking she had said too much.

Jane, wishing to save her embarrassment, asked Moll if she had had her supper yet.

"Yes, ma'am!" Moll beamed. "They do things right here! Sarah brought it up and she and Dorcas kept me company. A good bite of this and that, and I can boil myself up a cup of tea, whenever I feel like it! Look here at these fine dishes in the cupboard."

She opened an upper door, revealing gaily-painted teapot and cups, with matching plates and bowls and saucers. They were inexpensive but pretty, and Jane smiled indulgently, understanding a little how a frontierswoman like Moll would perceive this house.

Penelope, however, surprised her by getting quite misty-eyed over the crockery. "Oh! I had forgotten them! And once we had every meal with these! Look! This was my own special bowl! It has that extra butterfly! Oh," she said, smiling approvingly at Moll, "I am so happy that someone who appreciates them will be using them again! And how wonderful to have a nephew!" She came over to touch the baby, as if afraid he might be gone tomorrow.

Caroline whispered in her turn to Jane, "If Mamma comes here, she might be vexed not to see him in the family cradle."

"I would be sorry to offend her. It needs a bit of airing and cleaning first, and then we shall, of course, be proud to make use of it." She really liked her own cradle better, but perhaps it would be tactful if she could manage that concession.

"I am so sorry about your room!" Caroline admitted, in the same soft murmur. "If only Mamma had told us! You must think us dreadfully mean—but really, there has been no occasion to use the room in years and years, and it has been better to close it and save the cost of heating—"

"Really, Miss Tavington, I quite understand, and I do not blame you. There is nothing that cannot be dealt with. As long as the mattress is still sound, I shall be perfectly comfortable."

"You are too good. I am glad to see that you are brave, too."

-----

To his dismay, Tavington found himself alone with his mother.

"Oh, William," she lamented, with a mixture of sorrow and disgust. "My dear—"

"Don't, Mamma." Tavington warned her. "I am married. Jane is my wife. I was fortunate to find her."

"Fortunate!"

"—For if I had not, _I—would—be—dead--now_." He paused, to let that sink in. "I would be dead now, without her care. Never doubt it. You would never have seen me again. I would be rotting in an unmarked grave in the wilderness. Would you have preferred that? Would you really prefer my death to my marriage to a wealthy and generous-hearted heiress?"

"A mediocre twenty thousand pounds! You could have done better—"

"I could have done a great deal worse, and you know it!"

"Oh, William!" she repeated, more sadly still.

"Jane is a very intelligent and adaptable girl. If you give her a chance, you may find her able to become everything you wish in a daughter-in-law." He considered his words. _That is, if you ever wished to have a daughter-in-law at all, which is open to question._ "I hope never to hear a repeat of that remark about African heritage. It is absurd, and you know it."

"But they really sound—"

"Well, of course, they do! Their nursemaids teach them to speak! The accent is stronger, I grant you, among the ladies, who have traveled less, than in the men, many of whom have been educated in England. Jane's own father was at Oxford."

"Really?" She was still suspicious. "Are you sure he's not a tradesman?"

"Oh, Mamma, for God's sake!"

"Oh—but I am so happy to see you again, my dearest! And you are really, truly recovered?"

"On my honor, I am; with no scars that will appear in public."

"That is too bad, in a way," she reflected. "If you were to stand for Parliament, it would not be amiss to have some mark of service…"

He laughed. "I can always 'strip my sleeve and show my scars,' if you like. There are no lack of them. Not that the Whigs would care. I'm not ignorant of the papers here, Mamma. I know the treacherous rubbish they've circulated about me, and about Rawdon, for that matter."

"I have no doubt that the wretch Colonel Hayne deserved hanging, but there is bound to be a to-do on the floor of the Commons about it when Lord Rawdon returns. Are you sure you want your name associated with his?"

_Ah. So she does know who Rawdon is. _"Yes, Mamma. I do. Frank Rawdon has been a faithful friend and has done nothing contrary to his honor. I will not desert him, as he did not desert me."

"Very well. I shall discuss this with Lord Lyttleton in my next letter. I am sure it can be dealt with."

"Good. So now, Mamma, tell me all the _real_ news."

They talked another half hour: about fashions (his mother had strong opinions about his new wardrobe, and she told him he must not wear anything in blue or buff, which were the colors of their enemies the Whigs); about the _ton_ (she hated the young Duchess of Devonshire and her clique); about the theatre (the great Garrick was dead, and English drama with him, in spite of all Sheridan and Goldsmith could do); about the affairs of the young Prince of Wales (who was well on his way to becoming a very great fop and seducer); about her brother Colchester (who was a senile old fool and should be knocked in the head).

"And what of John?" Tavington asked. "Shall we see him tonight?"

"I think not. He will be at White's, I daresay. He does not confide in me." This last was uttered with a resentful air, and Tavington did not pursue the issue.

-----

Letty had never had a room of her own before. She lay alone, in the grandeur of the big four-poster, the curtains of blue patterned toile drawn partly around her. She did not want to close herself in. She wanted to enjoy the sight of the last of the fire ringed by pretty Delft tiles, of the big chest of drawers, just for her, of the dainty French dressing table with her own things laid out on it. How splendid they looked in this setting: silver-backed mirror and brush, silver-mounted ivory comb, silver powder box, silver trinket box—all laid out just so. She had a little money. Perhaps she could buy a little bottle of eau de Cologne. A very pretty bottle of something sweet. That would make it perfect. But it would not be lavender or lemon. It would be something entirely different, and all her own.

There was a little bookshelf, on which she had proudly placed her Bible, her prayerbook, and _The Governess,_ the only books she owned. She wondered if it might be possible for her to buy a book. She would like to have her own copy of _Evelina,_ and refer to it as she saw more of London. It was a dream, a wonderful dream, even if, like all dreams, there were disturbing elements in it.

Lady Cecily did not like them, and did not want them in her house. That much was clear. However, she very much wanted her son, and for now had understood that she must put up with them to keep him by her. Miss Jane bore her angry stares and her hurtful remarks the same way she had always borne such meanness back in her own family.

Oh, but it was such a magnificent house! Miss Tavington and Miss Penelope were so kind to her, and said such sweet things at dinner about how pretty she was, and how happy they were to have new sisters. If she could only avoid Lady Cecily's notice, and be very, very quiet, life could be wonderful here, with the rich, delicious food, the visits upstairs to the nursery, the possibility of playing on the harpsichord in the music room, the promise of the sights of London, and now, this glorious room of her own.

That nice little maid, Betty, had helped her dress, and told her much about the house. Letty had been told that her sister had been given a room that had been shut up for years. A great deal of the house had been shut up, in fact. Lady Cecily was not as rich as she appeared, or as she wished to appear. She also discovered that the servants were very curious about her and about the new Mrs. Tavington, of course, but Letty resisted the urge to gossip.

She considered her clothes. Perhaps Mrs. Tavington would order a new wardrobe for herself, now that they were in England, and perhaps Letty herself might get a few new things, too. She had looked at some of the ladies in the streets and in the open carriage, and knew that they needed to trim their hats a little differently to be in the latest style. The drooping plumes some ladies wore looked odd, but that must be the fashion. Perhaps Miss Penelope had a current issue of the _Lady's Magazine_. Her silk dress was still good, but was showing signs of wear. She had her blue habit for walking and riding in a carriage, and it was nearly new. The violet habit could be cleaned, or at the worst, turned, and would still be serviceable. The sprigged gown she had brought was not appropriate for this cooler weather, but she had the blue damask for daily wear. She could wear that tomorrow.

Tomorrow! She must sing for Lady Cecily tomorrow. The thought made the tips of her fingers tingle. It was alarming, but it was something she must do—and do well, to help her sister and brother-in-law. She must not disappoint them and let Lady Cecily sneer at them. Worries, cares, and delight faded with the fire, and she was soon in a deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of a world of possibilities.

----

Jane could not stay in the bed a moment more: the stench of mildew was suffocating. She wondered if she would have to sleep in the nursery, and if the beds were any cleaner there.

There was a soft knock at the door. She took her candle in hand, and went to open it. "William!" she whispered, pleased to see him. His rippling dark hair was loose about his shoulders. He was in Turkish slippers and a gorgeously embroidered silk banyan. He was so much like an oriental prince that she felt obliged to kiss him.

"You look magnificent!"

"I forgot I had this!" he laughed softly, taking the candle from her, as he came into the room. "Thank God I did not take it with me to America, or some yokel would be using it as a horse blanket now!"

He set down the candlestick on the dressing table and pulled her close. She returned his kiss, and then pulled back to inform him, with arch gravity, "But you cannot sleep here. _I_ cannot sleep here. The mattress is rotten with mildew. I was just going up to the nursery to see if I could fit in one of the little cots!"

"Rubbish! You'll sleep with me, of course. The bed's a bit narrow, but if one of us is on top, and one below—"

"Lead me to your den of iniquity!" Jane laughed.

He took her by the hand, and retrieved the candlestick with the other, and led her down the long hall to the far end. The floor boards creaked faintly under their soft, soft footsteps.

"Which is your mother's room?" Jane whispered.

"Here," he smirked. "Next to mine."

"Oh, dear. We must be very quiet."

"Nonsense. If she didn't want to hear, she should have given you a bed fit to sleep in. She must bear the consequences!"

He opened his own door for her, and led her in, rather enchanted to have a lover in there at last, something he had always been careful to avoid when he lived at home. Now he had a perfect right, and he found it quite stimulating. Jane was looking about her, full of curiosity and wonder at his most private and secret domain. She glanced back at him with a quick, excited look. Candlelight always became her. He set down the candlestick.

"Come over by the fire," he growled. By mutual consent, they threw off their garments, letting them pool on the floor. Tavington swept her up in his arms and carried her to his bachelor bed. Her head curved trustingly against his pulsing throat. The bed made hardly a sound as he laid her gently in it. "And now, my Jane, a happy homecoming indeed."

They could not keep quite still: Jane always cried a little at the height of her passion, and Tavington did not wish to curtail his own enjoyment in any way. A quick, relentless thumping announced to the bitterly angry Lady Cecily that her son was engaged in the act of coitus with that unattractive nobody who had tricked him into this farce of a marriage. She listened, unable to sleep, to the disgusting noises of animal lust filtering faintly through the wall, remembering an equally handsome man long ago, and nights of shameful surrender; and she bit her lip, swearing vengeance on her enemies, living and dead.

* * *

**Note:** 'Turning" a gown or any item of dress meant that one unpicked all the seams, turned the garment inside out, and sewed it back together so all the old dirt and wear would be on the inside. Obviously, this doesn't really work with prints, but with plain broadcloth like the habits, it would do very well. 

Yes, I do mean "quean," and not "queen." A quean is a disreputable woman.

Americans should remember that in British usage the first floor is the floor above the ground floor. (In other words, the British first floor is the American second floor. The American first floor is the British ground floor.)

Thanks once again to my loyal reviewers!

**Next--Chapter 29: Brothers and Sisters **


	29. Brothers and Sisters

**Chapter 29: Brothers and Sisters**

_Dinner will never be that bad again,_ Tavington hoped, in the sunny light of morning. He helped himself to coffee in the library. Jane was still upstairs, sleeping in his bed. He seemed to remember her leaving the room for awhile in the middle of the night, probably to see to the baby up in the nursery. He had told Rivers to send a maid to help her dress this morning. Breakfast was never served in the Tavington household until after nine.

As for himself, he had been too restless and excited to be home to sleep late, and had dressed and come down to enjoy a quiet morning in the quiet library. He had written a quick note to Lucy, to inform her that he was home and would call on her today. Rivers had taken it and assured him it would be delivered directly. Tavington sipped his coffee comfortably, and hoped Mamma would not openly insult Jane again after that first unpleasant ruction. As to her other guest, he had noticed her studying Letty in a way that at least was not hostile. Perhaps Mamma was pleased with her beauty, though it was very different from her own.

There was a noise at the door: John at last, surely. Even with the door closed, the bellowing was unmistakable.

"Rivers, you bugger! Help a fellow, won't you? No, don't call Pratt. I just want a bit of a sit-down in the library. Not quite ready to face the stairs, don't you know?"

The noise approached. Tavington grinned, anticipating his brother's surprise. The door was kicked, and burst open. John staggered in, shepherded by a harassed-looking Rivers. Tavington gave the butler a nod of dismissal. His brother stopped dead at the sight of someone in his favorite chair.

"Who the devil are you?"

"Don't you know me, John?"

"Good God! It's you!"

Tavington came over to shake his brother's hand. "How are you, John?"

Not well, he was pained to see. John had grown older too, and at the moment hardly resembled a gentleman: his dress stained and disheveled, reeking of spirits and cigar smoke. Up close, Tavington could see the moist, blotchy skin, marred with red spidery veins, the grey in the unshaved stubble, the eyes bloodshot and bleary. He had put on weight, too, and it did not become him. It was not the hearty heft of the sporting man about town: it was the unhealthy flab of a heavy drinker who stayed up too late and whose only exercise was dealing cards and lifting a glass. Be as that may, John was his brother, and Tavington was glad to see him.

He said so immediately. "I'm sorry I missed you at dinner."

"Find yourself pecked to death by the hens, old fellow? Wished I'd known you were coming. Had a splendid set-out at the club. Take you along tonight." He focussed on Tavington again. "Bloody hell! You're home from the bloody colonies, Will! This calls for a drink!"

Tavington raised his coffee cup. "I started without you. Sorry."

John laughed, and fumbled for the decanter. "Right with you, sir. Give a fellow a chance." A good three fingers was poured, slopping wetly over the polished table. "To my little brother! Back in the withered bosom of his family at last!"

Tavington laughed too. "That's appallingly rude of you, John. I'm very happy to return to the fleshpots of civilization. Having never had to do without them, you cannot appreciate---"

"Ha! Do I detect a touch of envy—"

"--You cannot appreciate them as they deserve. I spent two entire months, for example, without a drop of decent brandy, and with only Madeira to drink. The claret I had last night—"

"Only the best!"

"—was nectar of the Gods."

His brother grunted, throwing himself into an overstuffed leather chair. "Ooof! That's better. So tell me everything, Will. You look well, old fellow. _She_ was maundering about deadly wounds, or some such stuff—you know I try never to hear what she's saying—but it must have been the usual fantasy."

"No—I really was wounded in January. It was nearly the end of me, in fact."

"God."

"Well, that's what I said. Stuck with bayonets here—" he placed his hand at his right side. "—and here." he gestured at his collarbone. "Shot here—" he pointed to his left upper arm. "—and grazed here. " he indicated his left side. "And slashed across the chest."

His brother stared at him, shocked. "God in Heaven, Will. Did someone mistake you for a beef, and try to slaughter you?"

"I wondered at the time! Don't worry," he said smiling wickedly into his coffee. "I killed the fellow later."

"Damned glad to hear it," his brother muttered fervently, slurping at his own drink. "I did hear that Mamma's oh-so-dear Lord Ravenswood got you into the Guards."

"I shall have to call and thank him, once I order some decent clothes."

His brother grew serious, despite the haze of alcohol. "So. How goes the war? Are we going to win?"

"Probably not."

"Pity. At least you're well out of it now. Brought home any good loot?"

"Well--I didn't come home empty-handed, if that's what you mean."

"Well?"

"I bought you one of those Pennsylvania-style rifles for your collection. It's still packed, but I'll show it to you later today."

"Damned decent of you. Don't do much shooting anymore, but—well, perhaps I shall, if I can claim your company—"

"That sounds—"

"— It'll be like the old days. Ha! We'll get away from the old harpy, take my curricle, and gallop off to Wargrave—she won't know what's become of us!"

"Well—"

"Today! No—I have to meet Cholmondeley and Malden—but soon?"

"Certainly not today anyway, John. I've got to go to Beverley's. I haven't anything to wear—"

"You sound like a woman!"

"No, I really don't have anything other than what you see, and a wretched thing that was thrown together for me after I was wounded. The baggage train was looted after Cowpens, and I lost all my clothes."

John stared again. "Really! That's ghastly. War is a terrible thing—"

"Besides, I have to report to Horse Guards—"

"I suppose. Duty calls."

"—and I want to see Lucy—"

"Ha! The old woman will have your ears if she finds out! Lucy's still very much _non grata_. Terrible thing, running off with the clerk."

"Lawyer."

"Clerk—lawyer--what have you… It's all the old woman's fault. When I think of the fine fellows that Lucy could have had—"

"Water under the bridge, now."

"Ha! That's all you know! The old woman still has her teeth sunk into it, like a damned old b—"

"Don't, John."

His brother was getting red with anger, but now subsided again, with a bitter laugh. "You've been away, old fellow. Been away for years and years and years. She's worse than ever. None of us can get a moment's peace. Well, _I_ do, of course, because I can bloody well get out and stay out all night, but Caro and Pen have a sad time of it."

"John, why do you stay here, if you hate it so much?"

"Oh! well--it's not so bad for me, as long as I don't see the old woman. Don't have to pay for my own establishment--don't have to talk to a cook or hire a housekeeper. Damned convenient, really. Probably just laziness. Don't want to make the effort of moving out. And it won't be so bad for you either, of course. You were always her favorite."

"I wonder, after last night—"

"What happened?"

"Mamma's not best pleased with me, John. I did not come home alone."

"God! You didn't bring home a case of the pox, did you? I told you—"

Tavington burst out laughing. "No! I brought home a wife!"

Sir John Tavington was silenced. After a moment, he seemed nearly sobered. "You're married?"

"Yes, wish me joy, my dear John. There is indeed a Mrs. William Tavington, here in this very house. And a young Will, as well, born last May. Caro and Pen are over the moon."

"A boy?"

"Yes!"

"A boy!" John's eyes gleamed. "That's damned good news! If anyone starts hounding me about marriage, I can tell them we've already got ourselves a Tavington heir. Well done, my dear fellow!" He lifted his glass to his brother, saluting him, and took a long swallow.

"It's not too late for you, John. Being married can be a pleasant thing—"

"Stop, stop. Don't even hint at it. The old woman won't have it. You must know yourself that the only reason you could marry was because you were thousands of miles away, _on another continent_!" He looked at the glass in his hand with a reflective air, swirling the brandy. "Still, the wife business is a dodgy thing. What did the old woman say?"

"She was—she pretended—well, I wrote her and told her all about it, and she pretended that she thought I was joking about it! She was not very—pleased."

"So you're a married man. A Colonial then?" He chuckled. "You brought home a Colonial! The old woman must be spitting nails!" He smiled, pleased at the thought. "Is she pretty?"

"Well—"

"Oh, dear God—"

"She's a very nice girl, John, with a very _pretty_ fortune."

"Aha! How bad is she?"

"She's not ugly, John. She's only rather plain, but she dresses very well, and is a sensible, clever girl. And she saved my life, when I was wounded."

"That's why you married her?"

"No—I married her for the money—twenty thousand pounds!"

His brother nodded. "Not bad. Has the old woman made her cry yet?"

Tavington grimaced. "She's seen worse than Mamma, John. She went through hell to come out to the backcountry and nurse me, and then through hell again when we retreated. Mamma won't find her much like the little bread-and-butter misses she's tormented in the past. I do worry about her sister, though."

"You brought the sister as well? Are you mad?"

"No—Jane's very fond of Letty, and it was the best thing all around. Now _she_ is pretty. _Very_ pretty," he added, with a solemn sip of coffee.

"So why not marry that one?"

"Only a half-sister. No money. Jane got her mother's fortune, but the father married a new, young wife and disinherited the girls after he had a son. A shame. She's a lovely girl, and better off here, even with Mamma, than she was with that old scoundrel."

"Hard to believe."

"Believe it."

They chatted pleasantly a little longer. John was exhausted, after a hard night of gambling and drinking, and gave a great yawn. "Sorry, Will! I suppose I'm off to the land of Nod. Will you be dining here tonight?"

"Yes, certainly. I ought to let Jane and her sister settle in a little more before I leave them to Mamma."

"Good God, what a fate! Will you be staying here, or taking a house of your own?"

"I'm really not sure. I'll have to find out what Horse Guards has planned for me. For all I know the regiment is in Scotland or Ireland…"

"Don't think so. I believe they're in London. Ever since the riots last year, they've been careful to protect the city."

"I read about Lord George Gordon and his 'No Popery' followers. What a lunatic."

"Well, yes, of course, he's mad as a hatter. It was no joke, though, I can tell you, when he forced himself into the House and started haranguing us. I actually wondered if we were all going to be slaughtered by the mob. There wasn't much damage here, other than some broken windows, but Uncle Colchester's coach was stopped in the streets and the crowd made him shout 'No Popery!' before they'd let him go."

"Scum. Was he hurt?"

"Roughed up a bit. He's not young, and it was a great shock. Sattersby was no use at all—spent the entire time in his new nest in Dorset."

"What do you think of his bride?"

"I think—she's very much like—a woman. A lively, pretty, talking thing. Talks too much for my taste. Between ourselves, I don't think her well matched with Sattersby. Bound to be trouble, someday."

A long, thin, liveried servant came through the door and stood regarding Sir John with dour compassion. Sir John greeted him with a sardonic chuckle. "Ah, Pratt! Come to save me from myself?"

"That's right, sir."

Sir John nearly fell out of the chair and into the waiting arms of his valet. "Later, Will. We'll talk later. And I'll meet this wife of yours!"

After his brother was helped away, Tavington rang for the butler. "Rivers, I don't suppose you know of anyone who'd do for my valet, would you?"

Their admirable butler seemed to have anticipated Tavington's need. "It may be, Colonel, that I know of such a person. My sister's sister-in-law's second cousin once removed is out of a situation at the moment."

"Has he any experience?"

"Indeed, sir. He was valet for some years for Lord Fontenay before that gentleman's unfortunate demise."

"Good God, what happened to Fontenay?"

"He found himself in difficulties sir, involving some debts of honor. He shot himself. Twice."

"_Twice?" _

"The first time he neglected to put a ball in the pistol. Nasty powder burn. Had he not been more successful shortly thereafter, it would have caused him considerable discomfort."

"Pity. He was a good fellow. Well, send for this second cousin, or whatever. I'll take him on trial. If he can get here before I go out today, so much the better "

The butler bowed his assent.

Tavington added. "After breakfast, call a hack carriage for me. I have errands about town."

"Very good, sir."

-----

The sister's sister-in-law's second cousin once removed, by name Doggery, came sooner rather than later, and Tavington felt that he himself was the one being taking on trial, as Doggery gave little surreptitious, doleful glances at Tavington, evidently lamenting his new master's taste in garments and hairdressing. The man was a spindly little fellow, with a face like a sad monkey, but Tavington had him brought into the now empty library (not knowing if Jane was yet dressed), and demanded a trial of his skill as a hairdresser and barber.

The results of this impromptu audition were surprising and pleasing, and Tavington took him on at once and had him shown to the servants' quarters. He was impatient to be out and about, but knew it would be unkind to leave until after breakfast.

The meal was a light-hearted one, for Mamma, it seemed, now always took her breakfast in her boudoir, and was never down until the afternoon.

"And then," said Jane with mock gravity, "we shall be examined in music."

"Will you be back by then, Colonel?" Letty asked timidly. "It would be better if you could be here."

"I shall certainly by back by three o'clock," he assured her. "Caro, ask Mamma if she can possibly wait until I can enjoy the concert."

His wife and her sister seemed to be a little nervous. He thought they looked nice enough, if rather unadorned. Each was wearing a rather pretty dress of linen damask: Jane's a yellow that he thought he remembered; and Letty's a soft blue. They chatted pleasantly enough with his sisters, and Tavington felt sorry that he must remark about the shortcomings of Jane's room.

"We will see what can be done, William," Caroline promised him. "I know that we can find some better draperies for her, and I will order a new mattress. That may not be available for a few days, however." She turned smilingly to Letty, "And you, ma'am? Is there anything that can be done to make you more comfortable?"

Letty looked up from her breakfast, surprised. "Oh—no! My room is charming. I would not change a single thing!"

"The perfect houseguest!" laughed Penelope.

-----

The carriage Rivers found for him was an open barouche-landau with a knowledgeable driver, and Tavington enjoyed his ride about town in it. Knowing his mother as he did, Tavington had not even brought up the idea of borrowing her own coach for the day. Besides, a hack driver would not be tattling to the women of Mortimer Square about his itinerary.

It took over an hour to order his new wardrobe. He needed so much, and was offered a bewildering range of choices. His uniforms were easy enough: his measurements were brought up to date, little changed from his last visit in 1776. However, it was not done to wear uniforms about town unless one was on duty or appearing at an official function. Tavington immediately needed two suits of civilian clothing suitable for day, and ordered something much more elaborate for the evenings of pleasure he was anticipating. A rich brown velvet he considered, and then rejected. It reminded him unpleasantly of something, but he was not sure what. He shook his head, and it was set aside. His mother had told him to avoid the indigo blue of the Whigs—the color chosen because it was the same as that worn by the rebel Continental army. Unfortunate. He liked blue as much as Letty, and knew it became him. Perhaps a lighter blue…

No, that would unnecessarily vex Mamma, and make his own loyalties ambiguous. He decided instead on a changeable coppery silk, a voluptuously fine green wool (which he stated he would pay for partly in advance with full payment on delivery, if they could have it for him tomorrow), and a wine-colored velvet. Some patterned Spitalfields silk was designated for waistcoats that could be finished quickly, and some plain silk would be elaborately embroidered for more waistcoats that would be delivered in a few weeks. A very stylish greatcoat, draped behind with three capes, he required as soon as possible.

His shopping list was long, and the carriage stopped many times along Bond Street and Jermyn Street, as Tavington ordered shoes, boots, hats, linen, silk stockings, lace.

He next reported to Horse Guards, the headquarters of the British Army, and found out quite a bit about his new command. His superiors were notified of his arrival, and one of them, General Tazewell, was actually available. Tavington had not known the man to speak to, but found him an affable new acquaintance. He was briskly invited to dine with the General the following day at his club, the Beefsteak, where Tavington would also meet with his new lieutenant-colonel, Lord Alan St. Leger. He could hardly show himself at his officers' mess until he had a uniform appropriate to the occasion.

"St. Leger's a son of the Marquess of Melmerby. Cousin of yours, an't he?" asked the general. "I suppose you already know him."

"Just barely," Tavington shrugged. "Yes—my grandmother was a St. Leger, but Lord Alan must be almost ten years younger than I. After all those years spent in America, I feel I hardly know anyone."

"You'll soon be back to your old self," laughed Tazewell. "Come to the club prepared to spin some good yarns about the Colonies!"

Tavington smiled back. "I have a few you might find amusing."

-----

Duty done, Tavington told the driver to take him to Tudor Street-- number 7 to be exact--and sat back to enjoy the spectacle of the city. They passed through the Strand (Tavington remembered that the Beefsteak Club was nearby), Fleet Street, past the Temple, and soon they were in Tudor Street.

It was not a very grand street, and the houses looked old and rather narrow, but Lucy lived here, and that was enough. He gave his name to the decent-looking manservant who opened the door, and was pleased a half-minute later to hear his favorite sister's voice.

"Oh, he's here! Show him up, Tobias!"

And in the end, she could not wait, for she met him on the steps to kiss him, and walk him up to her little drawing room herself.

"Would you like some tea? Tobias, fetch us some tea."

Tavington did not particularly need tea, but knew his sister would enjoy showing herself a model hostess. He admired her happy face, and studied the house. It was not a bad house, though it was not half the size of their mother's, and all the walls were of a dark wood. On the ground floor was the dining room and, he guessed, Protheroe's study behind it. The first floor drawing room Lucy led him into was a pleasant place: furnished attractively, if rather simply, and with only a view out the windows of the equally narrow houses across the narrow street. It was Lucy's, however, and she was clearly proud of having a house of her own.

She had aged better than the rest of his family: still her pretty, vital self, though not as slim as before. She looked rounded and softened by motherhood, as if that experience had smoothed off sharp corners but left her whole. Her eyes, the silvery blue that she and he and Caroline had inherited from their mother, were as bright as ever, and at peace. Her brown hair, lighter than his own, was covered by a very entrancing gauze and lace cap, trimmed with pink ribbon rosettes.

"Oh, William! How handsome you look! Uniforms do so become you!"

He laughed and shook his head. They sat together on the single sofa, her hand in his. She smiled at him affectionately, and added, "Though I think you would look well in anything!" She grew serious, and said, "So much has happened since we were last in the same room. My life—well, you can see—"

"Are you happy, Lucy?"

Her face glowed. "Yes. So very happy. I know that you are disappointed in my marriage—yes, don't deny it—but Edward is the best and kindest of men, and a most loving husband and father. I can _trust_ him completely. How many other women can say the same?"

"You broke many an aristocratic heart when you eloped with him, I am told."

"Rubbish!" Her face hardened in determination. "If any of them had cared two pins for me, they would dared our mother's displeasure and taken me away. 'Oh, dear!'" she mocked. "'Mustn't cause a scandal! Anything but that!'" She laughed, a little harshly, and then smiled sweetly again. "Do you think I miss spending night after night at those balls and routs and revels, tittering and flirting with nitwits, while Mamma and John were busy at the gaming tables, winning and losing fortunes?"

"I don't know. Do you?"

She laughed again. "No. It was dull and tiresome and made my head ache, with my hair piled up into the latest fashion. The last time, I remember it was made into the shape of a Grecian Urn. It must have weighed half a stone. I could hardly move. It was nearly a relief to be locked away. Now I wear caps, like the old married woman I am, and I am perfectly comfortable."

"You look quite lovely."

The tea arrived. Lucy told the manservant, "Have Rebecca bring down Master Ned, as soon as he has had his dinner. Then go to Mr. Protheroe, and tell him that Colonel Tavington is here." She turned to her brother anxiously, "You can stay a little while, can you not?"

"Not much more than half an hour, Lucy. I promised to get back and defend my wife and sister-in-law from Mamma. She demanded that they play and sing for her this afternoon."

"Was she civil to them?"

"Do you think it likely?"

"No. Oh, William, was she horrid to them?"

"Quite horrid to Jane. Sneered at her and gave her the Willow Room, which had been shut up for years and stank of mildew. Letty—she ignored, but allowed to have your old bedchamber."

For the first time, Lucy looked a little wistful. "Oh, my dear old room! Did she like it?"

"She adored it. When Caro asked if she wished anything to be changed, she declared it to be perfection as it was."

"I'm so glad. My room was my sanctuary for all those years. I'm glad someone else is enjoying it. She sounds very nice."

"Letty is a lovely girl, but timid and shy, from her years as a slave. She is very happy to be free and in England, however, and is very much looking forward to all the town's diversions."

Lucy smiled slyly. "And among the –diversions—do you think a call at Number Seven, Tudor Street is in their future?"

"I rather think so. Would tomorrow be convenient? I've all sorts of business about town to take care of, and tomorrow I must dine with some fellow officers, but a little after noon I plan to take them on a drive that climaxes with a Tudor Street visit."

"And Mrs. Tavington will not be offended if I cannot return the call?"

"Jane understands your situation. After all, she and I eloped, and she suffered her father's displeasure."

"Did her father know about Miss Letty's changed circumstances?"

"There was an appalling meeting at the Charlestown docks. The man appeared, most surprisingly, to bid us goodbye. His reaction to Letty's appearance was just what I would have expected, unfortunately. Jane defied him, and hurried Letty away."

"Your Jane sounds like a very spirited young lady."

"Perhaps too spirited. She did not defer to Mamma in the way that Mamma expects. I hope there will not be a scene."

Lucy bounced up, and poured herself another cup of tea. "Oh, I hope there is! It's just what Mamma deserves! You ought not to make your wife stay long in that house: you _know_ Mamma will never accept her or be civil to her. If it gets too bad, you can come here—oh—" her face fell. "But I have only two spare rooms—"

Tavington answered, perfectly straight-faced, "Jane and I could possibly share—"

"Oh!"

"—but I will not let it come to that." He changed the subject, hearing footsteps coming downstairs. "And I have not yet made the acquaintance of my nephew."

The little boy, holding his smiling nurse's hand, toddled into the drawing room and then ran to his mother, peeking around her shoulder at the strange man in red. He had Lucy's eyes.

And so, Tavington made the effort to make friends with a small child, something he had never done before. Ned was an appealing little fellow, with his bright eyes and dark curls, and was curious about the many bits of shiny metal on Tavington's person. His vocabulary was not quite up to elevated conversation, but with his mother's prompting, he could say, "How 'oo do, Onka Wiyam?" and after awhile consented to seat himself on Onka Wiyam's knee. He appeared to comprehend that this red-coated individual was a 'sojer!" Tavington was satisfied with the beginnings of their acquaintance, glimpsing a long, eventful future as this little boy's friend and counselor.

Shortly thereafter, Protheroe arrived. The downstairs door opened and closed, and a moment later, Lucy's husband appeared, bowing civilly. Tavington had not remembered him being good-looking, and he was not, but he had a clever, thoughtful, interesting face, and made a respectable appearance in his plain but well-tailored coat and fine wig. Tavington thought there was a hint of unease, but was determined to make friends with this man as well as with his little son. He offered Protheroe his hand, and told him how pleased he was to find his sister so very well and happy.

"My wife and son are everything in the world to me," Protheroe said frankly, without a trace of the affectation or irony that would have been second nature to a man of the _ton. _"I understand that you are also a father now."

This made a very successful topic of conversation. Tavington gave them an edited version of his son's birth, and then, lightening the subject, told them about the woes of traveling with a small infant. Protheroe chuckled compassionately. Lucy was not so pleased at the story about the rum, and raised her brows at her brother. Both men burst out laughing at her, and little Ned squealed with laughter too, not understanding the conversation at all, but happy that the men were happy.

"Actually, Protheroe," Tavington said, "I wanted your help on some matters of business. There is my wife's fortune, which needs investing—I hoped in the five-per-cents. I wonder if you can deal with this, or refer me to some reliable man who can."

His brother-in-law seemed very pleased to be consulted. "It would be my honor to serve you, Tavington. Let me know when you wish to meet—it can be here, or at my office. I see no difficulty in handling the money as you wish. How much is the total?'

"Well, Jane's fortune is some twenty thousand, and I have a little that I have scraped together over the years. I also have about three hundred paid from Jane's investments that were closed down in Charlestown. I am quite resolved to put myself in your hands. You and your father always did well by our family—though I know that we have not done well by you."

Protheroe dismissed that. "Well, the past---well, the past is past, you know? I take it you do not share your lady mother's—"

"No. I do not. I shall visit tomorrow, and bring my wife and her sister."

"And the baby, I should hope!" Lucy appeared adamant.

"And the baby, if you like," he agreed, smiling. To Protheroe, he said, "I shall bring the papers to show you, and we can start the process." He bowed to them both. "And now I really must away. Protheroe, Lucy, my dear. And you, young master Ned!"

His nephew grinned, and waved a pudgy little hand in farewell.

-----

As he expected, Mamma had chosen not to wait for him. He took the stairs quickly, hearing the incisive, powerful tones of the big harpsichord in the music room. He recognized the piece, one of the ones Jane favored, a sonata by that Italian she liked. He smiled, listening to the volley of notes flowing effortlessly. Jane had nothing to blush for as a musician.

He reached the door as she was ending her piece, and was the first to applaud. She looked about and saw him, a relieved smile lighting her face. "You're back!"

He bowed to the ladies assembled, continuing to clap as he seated himself by Caroline. "Not a moment too soon! I would have been sorry to have missed the entertainment."

"How well you play," cried Penelope. "Caro, don't you think—what execution!"

"Yes, indeed," agreed her sister, "I, too, am very fond of the music of Signor Scarlatti. You are most accomplished!" She looked over to her mother. "Dear Mrs. Tavington is an excellent musician, is she not, ma'am?"

Lady Cecily was markedly less enthusiastic. "She plays adequately. A proper master could have given her more polish, a more elegant taste—that _je ne sais quoi_ beyond mere mechanical note-playing." She smiled condescendingly. "But yes, considering all her unfortunate limitations, she plays well enough." She deigned to speak to her daughter-in-law. "It is a pity you do not know the harp. It is far and away the more fashionable instrument."

Jane was very collected in her response. She knew that she had played very well indeed, and her husband's mother was merely trying to bait her. "You have a beautiful harp, ma'am. Do _you_ play?" Her eyes held a limpid, innocent challenge.

"No longer,' was the sharp retort. "I have better things to do." Her eyes moved inexorably to Letty. "And now I wish to hear this young person."

Letty hands were shaking, but she rose obediently. Jane began the accompaniment to _A Pastorale_, and Letty, not looking at her audience, sang it through without mishap.

Tavington had always thought she had a very nice voice, but his sisters were delighted, and his mother eyed the girl with greater interest than she had hitherto shown. In fact, she spoke first. "A most pleasing voice. Untrained, unfortunately, but perhaps it is not too late to remedy that defect. Sing something else."

And so, Letty was made to sing her entire small repertory. Tavington simply enjoyed it, but noted his sisters and mothers listening intently, with a positively—professional—air.

"When Signor Bellini comes on Thursday, we must have Miss Rutledge sing for him," suggested Penelope.

"No." Lady Cecily surprised them all. "Penelope, you will write immediately to Signor Bellini and have him come tomorrow. Miss Rutledge must waste no time in improving herself. And let him come early." She smiled slightly, so as not to crack her face-paint. "Come here, my child."

Letty looked up at the old lady and felt a faint chill at the little smile. She had learned over the years to be very sensitive to the expressions of the powerful in her world, and knew instinctively that this woman was not a friend, despite her fair words. Nonetheless, her long training overcame her reluctance, and she dutifully glided over to stand before the mistress of the house.

"You are a very pretty sort of girl, Miss Rutledge. An olive skin, but your eyes and figure make up for that shortcoming. Very delicate hands and wrists. We shall have the harp master as well. Even the simplest tunes are bewitching when played on the harp. You have no fortune, as I understand it?"

"No, Lady Cecily."

"—Mamma," Tavington broke in, not liking this inquisititon.

"Please do not interrupt me, William, I am only trying to be of assistance. You walk with grace, Miss Rutledge. Does she dance well, William?"

"Yes, Mamma, very well."

His mother considered the girl before her, and declared, "Her lack of fortune may not be fatal to having a good establishment in the future, when the lack is counterbalanced by a handsome appearance and some notable accomplishments. With proper instruction, she could be quite the ornament of a musical gathering. Do you play cards, my dear?"

"A little, Lady Cecily. I have learned whist—"

"That is very satisfactory." She turned coldly to Jane. "I will be having a few friends to dinner on Wednesday next to celebrate my son's return—eight or nine—a mere trifle. Will you and Miss Rutledge have adequate apparel for such a gathering?"

"Letty has the dress you saw last night, and I—"

"You must order her a new gown. She must be properly dressed if she is to appear in society. You ought to engage a lady's maid as soon as may be. Caro—Pen—order the carriage and take Mrs. Tavington and Miss Rutledge to Madame Margot's establishment this very afternoon. Stay—I will go, too. There must be no mistake about the colors."

Thus, abruptly, ended the little concert. His mother rustled away to change for the expedition to the modiste's, and the other ladies were left in confusion, not quite understanding the need for hurry. Caroline and Penelope were rather embarrassed by their mother's dismissal of Jane.

Caroline repeated her earlier praise. "You play beautifully, Mrs. Tavington. It is a great pleasure to hear you."

"Thank you," Jane replied. "And I still think that you have a magnificent harp. If the harp master comes, I shall not be too proud to take instruction along with Letty!"

Tavington was pleased with her good manners in turning the subject. He was even more pleased—and surprised, in fact--at his mother's sudden interest in Letty. Even if Mamma did not care for Jane, she could be of significant help to his sister-in-law if she adopted her as her protégée. And if his wife and sisters enjoyed their music together, perhaps it would be a good idea to stay at Mortimer Square a little longer than he had planned.

* * *

**Note:** St. Leger is pronounced Si'lin-jer. Rhymes with Dillinger. If Tavington's taste in clothing seems showy, that was 18th century gentleman's style. No plain black for them (unless you were a very stuffy clergyman). When Lady Cecily criticizes Letty for having an olive complexion, it simply means that Letty is not the extreme snow-white-and-rose fashionable ideal of the 18th century. 

**Next--Chapter 30: Back in the World **


	30. Back in the World

**Chapter 30: Back in the World **

_Number 12, Mortimer Square _

_London _

_September 19, 1781 _

_My dear Miss Gilpin, _

_Yes, it is I, Jane, who write to you from London! Our voyage was pleasant, and we arrived without significant incident last Saturday. It seems we are in a strange land: one I can hardly trust exists, and yet I find that pinching myself changes nothing. I am in England at last. _

_Much has happened since I last wrote to you. Colonel Tavington was sorely wounded in the Battle of the Cowpens last January. _

Jane paused, and took a deep breath. This was going to be terribly difficult to write, but she would have little time tomorrow. It was only nine o'clock in the evening. She ought to be able to finish this letter before she took herself off to the bath she had ordered yesterday, and to another night spent in her husband's cozily narrow bed. She looked around the candlelit morning room, where Letty was tearing their hats apart, the better to trim them in the latest fashion. Penelope was advising her, as excited and interested as Letty herself. Caroline had excused herself to go to her room, where Penelope told her she spent a great deal of time.

Returning to her letter, she compressed the most eventful episode of her life into less than a page: the dangerous journey to Camden, Tavington's wounds, the little cabin and all its inconveniences, the battle that had raged around them, the even more disastrous return. There she was forced to stop for a little while, and walk about the room. Letty looked so happy. And why should she not? Lady Cecily had taken such particular notice of her. At that most exclusive and expensive modiste's shop, her ladyship had devised a magnificent evening dress for her sister, one that would catch every eye.

Jane had hoped to order something herself, but there was no time. It was Letty, Letty, Letty who was on her ladyship's mind, until the dress was ordered and Lady Cecily discovered that they must return home to dinner. Jane was not jealous, exactly. She did not think she would have liked Lady Cecily singling her out and talking to her as she had to Letty: as if she were a toy or doll for her amusement. And it was better to be ignored than insulted, in Jane's opinion. Still, she was vexed by her mother-in-law's haughty manner and lack of consideration even for her own daughters.

To make it smart even more, it appeared the modiste was somewhat reluctant to take the order. Apparently there was a question of a large bill to Lady Cecily's account that was still unpaid. Jane resolved the matter by quietly taking the woman aside and assuring her that she, _Mrs._ Tavington, would be paying for her sister's clothing, and would pay in full on delivery of said items. Madame Margot sullenly agreed to the arrangement, and a fitting was scheduled for Friday. She composed herself, and then sat down again at the elegant lady's desk to continue her letter.

_Our road to Charlestown was paved with disaster. I was taken with labor pangs, and we were forced to stop the coach in order that I should deliver. My darling little son was born a month too early, but is well and thriving. However, just as I was delivered of him, we were beset by rebel bandits, led by Benjamin Martin, a man who had dined at my father's own table. In the course of the fighting, he and his cruel men killed my dear, dear Biddy--- _

She rose again, overcome with anguish, wondering if she would ever cease feeling pain and guilt for that loss.

Letty looked up. "Are you well, Mrs. Tavington?"

"Yes—quite well. I am just writing a letter to Miss Gilpin." She explained to Penelope. "My old governess, and an excellent woman. She now resides with her clergyman brother in Bedfordshire. She will be so happy to hear that we are here and safe!"

"In Bedfordshire?" replied Penelope. "That is not so distant. Does the lady ever come to London?"

"I have no idea. She has in the past invited me to visit. We were together a long time—since I was eight years old, and remained as my companion until last year."

In a few more minutes, she was calm enough to continue the letter. It was useless to describe the horror of that day. Jane stated the facts baldly, not feeling they needed rhetorical ornament to make them any more dreadful. She rested her head on a hand for a few minutes, looking about the room, studying the ornaments and some charming family miniatures, before she continued, telling her of their few weeks in Charlestown, and of her husband's promotion, which was the cause of their departure from South Carolina. And then she turned to the subject that worried her the most. She could write only haltingly, trying to deal with the great change in her life.

_With all the terrible things that happened, Colonel Tavington was very concerned about my need for a female companion. He also felt a debt was owed to Biddy, who did so much to save his life. He is no friend of slavery, and so urged me—__nay, persuaded me--that it was unjust for a young woman who was my sister, though unrecognized, not to be treated as a gentleman's daughter, which she is in fact. Therefore—__Letty, our good and pretty Letty, whom my father acknowledged in an unguarded moment to the Colonel, has accompanied me to England, not as my maid, but as my sister. _

_Becoming Miss Laeticia Rutledge has not been easy for her, nor has the change been without discomfort for me, and yet I can say justly that we are both happier than we have ever been. After you were taken from me, I consoled myself by making a truer friend of her, reading with her and teaching her music. She has learned her lessons well, and while very shy and soft-spoken, never behaves in a vulgar or ill-bred way. No one meeting her, who has not known her as a slave, takes her for anything but a born lady. She is accepted as my half-sister, though a poor relation, due to her lack of fortune. I beg you to accept her as well. She is my greatest comfort— _

Jane lined through the words. It was unfair to William, and made it sound as if he were unkind to her, which he was not.

_She is a great comfort to me, and it is such a pleasure to see her beautifully dressed. You can only imagine how well she looks. Papa saw her at the docks, and said horrid things, which I shall not repeat. _

She next wrote about Moll Royston, feeling better as she described her tall nurserymaid's brave defense of them, and Jane's trust in her strength and resourcefulness. She rambled on about the baby and his many virtues, and touched on the voyage and how friendly the officers had been to them all.

_I am now at the home of the Colonel's mother, Lady Cecily Tavington. In confidence, I can confess myself a little disappointed. Lady Cecily clearly does not consider me worthy of the alliance, and has been rather cold to me. She has taken to Letty somewhat, however, since she is so pretty, and, I suspect, because she has not committed the offense of marrying her son. _

_The lady is giving a dinner to welcome the Colonel next Wednesday, and a great to-do was made about getting Letty a new gown suitable to the occasion (which expense, needless to say, will be my responsibility).Letty has a pretty voice, as you know, which also pleased her ladyship, and she will receive singing lessons from a Mr. Bellini, who is coming tomorrow for the purpose. She is also to have lessons on the harp. Her ladyship possesses a most elegant instrument, and I intend to learn a little of the art myself. _

_The Colonel's sisters, spinsters of around forty, are extremely amiable and take delight equal to mine in music. I hope to make good friends of Miss Tavington and Miss Penelope. __I met the Colonel's brother, Sir John, at dinner tonight. He is in no way his brother's equal in looks, but was very civil to me, and spoke with great satisfaction about the addition of his new nephew to the family. He spoke little to his mother, and I suspect some coolness there. He left shortly after dinner to go to his club, where I understand he spends a great_ _deal of his time. _

_Lady Cecily also went out, to a gaming establishment called Mrs. Crewe's. She is a great gamester, apparently, and makes night into day, so frequently does she spend all night at the tables. It explains why there seems to be a certain lack of ready money for maintaining her handsome house and paying her bills. Part of the house is shut up, and the room she gave me had not been aired in years. _

_The Colonel did not go out, not liking to be seen until he has something proper to wear, as all his civilian clothing was lost with the baggage train at the Cowpens. He is in the library as I write this, working on his notes for a memoir of the war. He is firm in his conviction that the southern campaign has been dreadfully mismanaged, and that Lord Cornwallis' strategy will lead to catastrophe. My own terrible experiences while traveling in a South Carolina stripped of the main part of the army would tend to support this. _

_Please do not discuss my views of my husband's mother with anyone else. I should not have written so much, but I know I can confide in you. Perhaps she will warm to me in time, and I shall someday be ashamed of my words. I can but hope. In the meantime, write to me, my dear friend. I long to hear about you and about those nieces whom you love so dearly._

_Yours, etc. _

_Jane Tavington_

-----

The next morning brought them Signor Orazio Bellini, who arrived in time to take some coffee with them as they finished breakfast. Jane had never met an Italian, and was wondering what he would be like. Italians, to her knowledge, were either faceless, brilliant composers of music, or monstrous villains in plays and novels. She only hoped he spoke English.

Which, he did, she was relieved to find, very good English indeed; since he had lived in England for the past fifteen years.

He was a big man, big in body, in nose, in wig, in gestures, in presence, with large black eyes that bulged a little. Jane's first impression of him was that he was rather ugly. A big voice, too, but extraordinarily resonant and pleasing: a rich voice, a bass as black as the coffee he drank, with luxuriantly rolled r's. He was introduced to them, and he seemed to expand even more, glowing with pleasure when he understood that the lovely, dark-eyed young woman was to be his new pupil. Setting down his coffee cup with a flourish, he gallantly escorted them to the music room upstairs.

"Ah, Madame, it is you who will accompany this lady?" he smiled affably at Jane. She felt a little overwhelmed at his regard, for Signor Bellini actually looked her as few men did, an intense, interested look, that gave him the appearance, at least, of caring what she thought or did. He settled back on a sofa then, and observed Letty with eyes half-shut and head cocked.

Jane thought Letty sang very nicely, though she knew little about it. In South Carolina, she had attended the concerts of the St. Cecilia Society, and had actually heard a few professional singers. Letty did not sing quite as they did, but Jane liked it all the same. When she had finished, Bellini came forward, clapping loudly with his enormous hands, and smiled at both of them.

"Thank you, Madame," he bowed to Jane. "You are an excellent accompanist." He turned to Letty, very seriously. "And you have never studied singing? This is true?"

"No, sir," Letty whispered, "I just sing. My sister taught me to play a little on the spinet—"

"Ah, so you have studied music. That is good, very good. You have a most enchanting voice—untrained—but no more! There is much we can achieve, if you will apply." He smiled down at Letty, and his heavy features lit with charm. "And you will try—yes?"

"Yes—of course."

_"Va bene!"_ Without warning he shooed Jane from her seat at the harpsichord. "Now, Madame, it is I who must take your place."

Jane moved to the sofa he had vacated, while Caroline and Penelope sat down with her, all of them eager to see how the lesson progressed. Jane learned more about the art of singing in that one hour than she had learned in her entire twenty-four years. Letty was taught to stand properly, how to breathe properly, and then was taken through a series of exercises that made Jane's throat ache in sympathy. Bellini explored the extent of her range, her ability to sing loudly or softly, and then was vociferous in his praise when, with very little instruction, he found that she could trill, naturally and evenly.

"You will be a marvelous singer, Miss Rutledge! _Bellissima!_ I shall teach you the art of the coloratura, and you will have no equal in society."

He bustled--if so dignified a man could be said to bustle—over to a leather portfolio he had brought. "I have here for you a new song to learn—very nice for a young lady—by Signor Handel, whom you English like so much. Also, a pamphlet written by me about the pronunciation of the Italian tongue. You know Italian? No? Well, you must learn a little to become a good singer! Do not sing anymore today. It will fatigue your voice. I shall come tomorrow and we shall work. Play through the song and study this pamphlet instead, and we shall accomplish much. Who is your favorite composer?"

Letty looked at him in confusion, and he smiled, and turned the question to Jane. "Do you have a favorite, Madame?"

"Oh! Scarlatti! I love his sonatas."

The big man seemed pleased. "A great man. And I know of some good songs to sing, not by Domenico, the writer of the sonatas that Madame admires, but by his father Alessandro. Very beautiful arias!" The hour had flown by, and there was a little ceremony as he bowed over all their hands and left. Caroline had told Jane how much and when he was to be paid, and she was able to accomplish that smoothly, without embarrassment.

-----

Tavington had breakfasted before the ladies, and was pleased when his new valet Doggery appeared at the library door, to tell him his new suit had been delivered, and the boy was downstairs awaiting payment. Tavington sent the sum down with Doggery with instructions to get a receipt. Very shortly, he was being assisted into his new, handsome clothing, ignorant of the commotion downstairs. When he emerged from his room, the singing teacher was gone, and Tavington was perfectly groomed and impeccably tailored.

Jane hardly recognized him. When he came downstairs, smiling as he saw his wife and sisters huddled over a new piece of music, Jane stared at this new acquaintance, thinking for a moment that he was some relation of her husband. No. It was William, looking quite—well, handsome, certainly, but not at all like the Colonel Tavington she had married. She had never seem him during the day dressed in anything other than a uniform, except when he was too ill to be dressed in much of anything at all. This was an elegant, alien being: sophisticated and debonair. She was not sure she liked the change. But everyone else was admiring, so she smiled and admired the new clothes too.

And then they were to go out. William had ordered a carriage, and they must change into their habits and put on their newly trimmed hats. A word was whispered in Caroline's ear, and she shook her head sorrowfully, as did Penelope, when she was heard the suggestion. And the baby was sent for, to go out and see some of London, himself.

-----

As happy as she was in her excellent new billet, the nursery, Moll enjoyed having a bit of time to herself. The Colonel and his ladies had gone out, and taken the baby with them. Off to visit the Colonel's sister, Mrs. Protheroe, she understood, though Mrs. Tavington said she wasn't to speak of it, since her ladyship had disowned her. No matter. Moll took herself down to the servants' hall, the first time she had had the opportunity, and met a number of people she had not met before this.

They were respectful of her, as one who had once been a property owner, and might still receive compensation from His Blessed Majesty. Mr. Rivers, the butler, called her Mrs. Royston, and she was invited to a bit of second breakfast, while the lower servants went about their business. The cook and butler were friendly enough, though not as prone to gossip as she would have wished. She gave them a few good tales of adventure, which were mostly true, and found out eventually that Miss Lucy, who was now Mrs. Protheroe, had disgraced herself by marrying a lawyer. Moll knew nothing about lawyers, and did not quite understand why it was a disgrace to marry one. Perhaps Mrs. Tavington could explain.

-----

"Another glass, Tavington?"

"I thank you. This is really excellent."

The officers lazed after a sumptuous club dinner over their wine. Tavington was not a member of the Beefsteak Club, but he might well angle for membership, if their food was always this good. It combined the comfortable maleness of an officers' mess with luxury unheard of on campaign, and with good talk of politics and current events. Nor were the members primarily military men. One elderly member, a peer, was acknowledged an authority on classical poetry, and was frequently applied to resolve disputes. Tavington found it the perfect place to ease back into London society, free from his mother's anxieties about place and precedence.

_I hope Jane is having an equally pleasant dinner._ Both John and Mamma had their own separate dinner engagements. That left the four younger women on their own, probably to take their dinner in the intimacy of the breakfast room. They seemed to be getting on splendidly. And Lucy had enjoyed their visit, earlier in the afternoon. Little Ned was quite curious about the even tinier Little Will, and there had been amusement aplenty simply in watching the children. Seeing Protheroe and Lucy together made him feel better about his sister's situation. She and her husband were not simply husband and wife: they appeared to be the best of friends as well.

Tazewell helped himself to some more cheese, and was thoughtful about Tavington's disclosure that he was writing his memoirs of the war. "I'd be careful just now, Tavington, whose toes you step on. Cornwallis is in very well with the King and his friends, even though he's very Whiggish in his politics. And if he does lead the troops into a disaster, it's possible there might be a great wave of sympathy generated. Criticizing him might look like kicking a man when he's down."

Tavington sneered a little, swirling the wine in his glass. "In battle, General, kicking the enemy when he's down is a sound way to win."

Young St. Leger laughed. "I daresay, Colonel. Very sound when on campaign, but not done—at least openly—here at home. The war was never popular to begin with."

"I know all that," Tavington said impatiently. "What I dislike is going into the war as we did, timidly and without the will to win. Half measures are worse than simply giving up the colonies, because we made, in my opinion, a kind of contract with the loyal subjects there—probably well over half the population—that we would defend them and stand by them. My own men—most of my officers, too—were landholders and merchants who have lost everything because they trusted in the Crown. It sickens me that so many have been left dispossessed and destitute. It is unworthy of a Great Power to desert its subjects, wherever they may be."

"I think," remarked Tazewell, "that _that _is your best line. Rather than attacking Cornwallis, you should bring to public attention the plight of the provincial troops."

"And their dependents," Tavington agreed, warming to the subject. "My soldiers – and Ban Tarleton's British Legion--were followed by hordes of wives, widows and children. They've suffered too. One woman, from the New York colony, barely escaped with her life from the rebels after they imprisoned her husband. You may not believe this, but the village elders had her stripped naked, along with her little children, and put her on display on the town square, with a sign around her neck saying 'Here you may see a Tory Woman.' After a day, a few of the townspeople were ashamed and helped the family escape. The man's uncle was not so lucky, and died of his burns from tarring and feathering."

"Good God," managed St. Leger. "That's incredible."

"It is a fact." Tavington shrugged. "Only one instance of many. We brought back a sergeant's widow as our nurserymaid. A brave, good woman who lost her husband, her farm, her child—everything, in fact but her father's old musket, and all because she was a faithful subject of King George. The rebel papers are full of exaggerations and half-truths about British atrocities, and they are often reporting deeds actually committed by the rebels themselves, with British names substituted for their own."

"But," Tazewell pointed out, "there is no doubt of the Hayne situation. The rebels are still frothing over the man's execution. Rawdon is going to face questions in the Commons when he arrives."

"Rawdon is not here in town?" Tavington asked, surprised. "I was meaning to call on him."

"No—not that I'm aware of."

"He left Charlestown before I did. I hope he has not met with a mischance. He was very ill from the climate."

"Might have been taken by the French," St. Leger suggested.

"God, I hope not! We were damned lucky ourselves. We sighted a French man o'war in the Channel, but it halted the chase when two of ours appeared on the horizon."

"We? Ah, yes, you're married. You mentioned a nurserymaid. A Colonial lady, then?"

"Yes, the daughter of one of those Rice Kings. Her father's a bit of trimmer, but was never caught in dealings with the rebels. Huge amounts of land—all to go to his sons, unfortunately. My wife and her sister are quite enjoying seeing England for the first time."

"You did not consider remaining in the colony as a planter yourself?" Tazewell asked.

"I did consider it, actually, for the country is bountiful and—if one survives the heat and fever—there are all sorts of ways of making one's fortune. With the current military situation, however, it's quite impossible. I do not wish to be a Cassandra, but I predict that Cornwallis' strategy is going to cost us the South, if not the entire war."

"Well, well," Tazewell smiled indulgently. "You may well be right, but don't put yourself in the wrong by attacking Cornwallis. Stand up for your soldiers. No one can fault you for wanting to see them treated fairly."

He had plainly had enough of the war, and Tavington changed the subject to horses. This put a light in St. Leger's eye. He had a horse he was hoping to enter at New Market, and knew all sorts of good fellows who could oblige Tavington with a mount.

Then the talk changed to carriages and fashions in carriages, and the best makers, and then the carriages that showed off the loveliest women of the _ton_—and the Town. Tazewell and St. Leger had their own tastes in feminine beauty, and were very much at odds over whether the laurels should go to Perdita or Dally the Tall. Neither name meant much to Tavington, and he was given an earful of gossip, as both men tried to enlist him as an admirer of the two women, neither of whom he had ever seen.

Dally the Tall was Mrs. Grace Dalrymple Elliott, a lady of very good family who had been seduced by Lord Valentia, and then divorced by her husband, Dr. Elliott, in a tremendous scandal a few years before. The word now was that she was the mistress of the Prince of Wales, or of Lord Cholmondeley—or both. Tazewell went on about the grace of her slender, tall person, and her magnificent eyes.

St. Leger waxed quite sentimental over Perdita, who, it seemed was actually a Mrs. Mary Robinson. Tavington remembered reading something about her being an actress, and St. Leger then became even more exercised about her fall from virtue.

"I saw her onstage in _Perdita and Florizel._ My dear Tavington, you can have no idea—such exquisite beauty and sweetness—her great career thrown away because of the persistence and selfishness of a Prince—"

"Now, now, St. Leger," Tazewell reproved him, "one can't miscall His Highness. Nobody forced the girl to give in to him. Probably thought she'd make her fortune off him, but it seems not. She's in France now, one hears. As for having a "great career," that's as may be. She _might_ have had one had she stuck to the boards, but that's all over now. As for her looks, I agree that she's a remarkably pretty girl—wonderful skin. But Dally's the one for my money--"

"I hear she's the one for _anyone's_ money," St. Leger added snidely.

They all laughed, and Tavington asked about the more respectable ladies he had read about. "My cousin Sattersby is married," he remarked. "Do either of you know his wife? She was a Mitford."

Both men had had the honor, it seemed. Tazewell, who was very happily married himself, simply said that she seemed a pretty, pleasant-spoken girl. St. Leger sighed ruefully over his lack of success with her.

"She was certainly very sought after. Sattersby had evaded the yoke for years, but I gather that your uncle put his foot down rather heavily, and made some arrangement with the lady's father. A princely dowry—and a lovely, spirited girl herself. She hunts, you know. Wonderful seat, for a woman."

"My mother told me she was musical."

"Oh, Lord! She does _everything_ well! At least that's what her family said when she came out. Such a crying-out! I don't deny I would have liked to have caught her, but she was definitely the sort with an eye to an eldest son."

"None of those at this table, I take it," said Tazewell, with a twinkle. "Younger sons all, making our way in the service of His Majesty." He lifted his glass. "God Save the King!"

"The King!" his dinner companions echoed.

-----

Tazewell was eager to get home to his wife, but St. Leger and Tavington lingered long over the wine, sharing army and family gossip. Then there was a game in the card room, which filled another two hours. By the time Tavington left the club, it was long after midnight.

Cool swirling fog softened the flames in the lamps lit by each door on the street. Only a few vehicles clattered past, their wheels splashing through the soggy filth covering the pavement. Tavington took a deep breath, trying to clear his head, as he waited outside the door of the Beefsteak Club. It might take sometime for the porter to find a carriage for him. The club had become hot and stuffy and loud with the crowds of gamesters shouting out wagers and drunken sallies that passed for wit. It had been a long time since he had spent such an evening. He stubbed out the remains of his cigar.

"Come home with me, sir?" called a woman in the shadows.

Tavington glanced at the young whore without much interest. The area near the Strand was a favorite promenade for London's harlots. Actually, nearly every street was a favorite promenade, for London's women of the town numbered in the thousands. Tavington had once owned a copy of _New Atlantis_, a guide to London's prostitutes, giving their names, addresses and specialties. It must be out of date, now, of course, but what matter? It was easier to find a whore than a pint of ale in London.

The girl called out again, "Don't be shy, sir. 'Tis only nine shillings for a bit of heaven. What do you say?"

Painted boldly, with a cheap wig and tawdry bright finery, she might have been enticing a few hours earlier, for she was very young, and had a pretty face under the paint. Her silk gown was cut so low that the tips of rouged nipples peeked over the bodice. She saw him looking, and advanced on him, swaying her hips.

"Oh, you _are_ a real gentleman," she purred, reaching out to stroke the fine cloth of his coat. "And a handsome one to be sure! Come on then! I'll give you a quick in and out behind the corner there."

"Not tonight," Tavington said shortly, pushing her away. It was too late, and he was not in the mood to put up with such a low creature.

She was not so easily dismissed, however, and slipped under his arm, nuzzling close, groping shamelessly at his groin. "Ah, that's what I like in a man—a good, big cock," she giggled, squeezing with an experienced hand.

Tavington was taken aback at such aggressiveness, and would have shoved her aside had she not distracted him by tugging down her bodice even farther. Plump, firm breasts were flaunted, and Tavington's felt a surge of interest. The girl had managed to undo the top button of his breeches, and Tavington was becoming inclined to let her have her way with the rest, but—

There was the softest scrape of a boot nearby. The merest nothing, but Tavington had not survived five years of war by ignoring his surroundings. The whore had maneuvered him around, with his back to the corner, and something was coming—

He seized the girl, whirling her up and around, putting her between him and whatever was heading his way. She screamed and kicked out. Tavington tossed her aside like a clawing cat, and saw the two men who must be her partners. Pimps, paramours, predators: all of them at one time or another, probably.

The girl slammed against the wall, knocking her head hard against the bricks. The two men, shapeless and cagey, tried to come at him, knives raised; but Tavington had already whipped out his sword with a cold hiss of steel, and was lunging past the moaning girl. _Really, such oafs…Hardly worth my time. _

The first man's knife was dropped from a hand that suddenly useless, cut with surgical precision through the tendons. The man fell to his knees wailing in pain and shock. His friend swore a foul oath, and charged foolishly. Tavington slashed him across the face, and the man staggered blindly, trying to wipe the blood out of his eyes. Tavington stood waiting for any renewed attacks, his teeth bared in a demonic grin, panting with excitement. The half-blinded man grabbed at his friend and the two stumbled away, cursing. It had all happened in less than thirty seconds.

"Run away, now, lads," Tavington called cheerfully. "Find some little nancy-boy to threaten! You're not worth the trouble of killing, you pathetic footpads!"

No time to gloat, now. Tavington's gaze swept the dark street. The screams had attracted no notice from the club—not with the noise level inside what it was. No person in their right mind would heed a few screams in the street anyway, and there was no sign of the Watch. There was no sign of the porter, gone to find him his carriage. With a spring in his step, Tavington walked back to see if that treacherous little harlot had made off.

She had not, and his carriage had still not arrived. The porter's potential tip was rapidly diminishing. The girl peered up him, dazed; and then scrambled to her knees, looking about wildly for her two companions.

"They ran away and left you, my dear. You chose your friends unwisely, and now you must pay the price."

"Oh, sir! Don't have me taken to prison! I'll do anything—"

"Yes, yes, stop whining at once, you silly whore. Thievery is a risky business. Stick to fucking in the future: you won't hang for that."

Briefly, fiercely, he considered bending her over and pumping away some of his rising excitement. It was exactly what the little bitch deserved. But perhaps, something else was called for--

Grabbing her by her arm, he hauled her over to the nearest area railing, and threw her petticoats up over her head. With one hand, he gripped the back of her thick, tangled hair, and with the other he whacked her across her bottom with the flat of his sword. The girl sobbed and pleaded, but Tavington was in no mood to be merciful.

"If I were not the man I am, I could have been killed tonight, and a damned silly way to die it would have been. Consider yourself, lucky, my girl, that I'm in a good humor!"

He brought the blade down with another sharp crack against her soft buttocks, and was rewarded with a very satisfying squeal. He might have spent a little longer at the sport, and given her a good hard rogering as well; but a halloo sounded down the street, and a carriage took shape in the fog. And the girl was a foul little thing: no doubt poxed and clapped-out. No, he had a wife at home, anyway.

Tavington tossed a girl a few shillings to pay for his entertainment, and climbed into the carriage with a smile on his lips and a throb in his breeches, planning a late night surprise for Jane.

Yes, it was _good_ to be back.

-----

**Note: **The attack was based on something that happened to a friend of Dr. Johnson's. In real life, it was three against one, and Thrale was forced to kill one of his attackers. There was the untidiness of an inquest, at which he was of course found to have acted in self-defense.

**Next—Chapter 31: The Pleasures of London **


	31. The Pleasures of London

**Chapter 31: The Pleasures of London **

Jane found it difficult to adjust to Lady Cecily's odd schedule. Her mother-in-law was never present at breakfast, and apparently did not rise much before noon. That in itself was a good thing, for it gave Jane hours that did not have to be spent in unpleasant company. Jane could rise, take her time dressing, have a leisurely breakfast with her sisters—and occasionally her husband—and enjoy Letty's music lessons.

She wrote her letters in the morning, too: To Mary Laurens, to little Mr. Midshipman Pevensey, and again to Miss Gilpin, who had responded quickly to the announcement of her arrival. The former governess repeated her original invitation, describing her home and village so delightfully that Jane felt nearly homesick for a place she had never seen. A comfortable little vicarage in a pretty little town sounded more and more desirable, when contrasted with living in grandeur in London, in the fine house of a woman who clearly detested her.

_It would certainly be less expensive, _she reflected sourly, going through the pile of tradesmen's bills that they had already run up in a little over a week. Letty's new gown had put a serious dent in the funds Jane had designated for clothing. Other purchases would have to be deferred. Lady Cecily had already said something sneering about Jane having only three gowns for evening, but that was too bad. Her husband, she knew, had spent a great deal on his new wardrobe. Jane and Letty must have a new gown apiece for day, but Jane would explain to her sister that those would be the last acquisitions for the quarter. Letty must be made to understand that it would be ridiculous and dangerous to go into debt, simply because of other's people's ideas of fashion. Jane did not think she could stomach Lady Cecily's tactic of running up bills and never paying them. And shopkeepers would not allow an unknown Mrs. Tavington the same latitude given to Lady Cecily, an earl's sister and a well-known member of the fashionable _ton. _

Aside from the expense, the most unpleasant aspect of her mother-in-law's way of life was how _late_ she stayed up. Lady Cecily went out a great deal. She made and received the usual "morning" visits, but Jane smirked at the misnomer. None of Lady Cecily's morning visits occurred earlier than two in the afternoon. Jane much preferred her mother-in-law to dine out, for then Jane was not trapped in the drawing room, playing cards to all hours, until Lady Cecily finally retired around three in the morning. Jane would leave periodically to nurse the baby—the only excuse that Lady Cecily would grudgingly allow—and would return to play the same card games and hear the same acid remarks. It was very fatiguing. If this made her a country bumpkin, Jane did not care.

She almost never saw Sir John, and her husband rarely. William had told her he was busy with his regimental duties, but he also was spending a great deal of time with his brother. It was only natural that he would want to renew fraternal ties, and Jane had found nothing objectionable about the elder Tavington. Sir John did not seem particularly impressed with or interested in her, but he was polite, and that counted for a great deal with Jane.

Today the two men had disappeared on a jaunt out to Richmond to see Lord Ravenswood, the friend who had been instrumental in obtaining William's promotion. They had left early, taking Sir John's fast and elegant curricle, laughing like schoolboys. Or at least like tall, well-dressed schoolboys. William had said he would be back for dinner, but from the way Sir John had dismissed such a promise, she thought it more likely that they would either dine with Lord Ravenswood, or at some inn along the way that Sir John favored.

There were some mysteries in the house. One was what Caroline did with her time. Her eldest sister-in-law spent much of the morning alone in her room. Perhaps she preferred to write her letters there, but Jane found it hard to believe she had such an extensive correspondence as to require four hours a day. It was none of her business, however. She and Caroline were getting on well, and Jane wanted to do nothing to offend her.

She would be very happy when their stay with Lady Cecily was over. While her sisters-in-law were friendly, nothing made up for having to bear Lady Cecily's manifest dislike. It was a dull, heavy weight that Jane carried around all day long. Any meal graced with her mother-in-law's presence was a trial, as Jane waited for the verbal sticks and stones. They were less overt when William was present. When he was away, however, there was no limit to the hostility. Family visits were typically at least two months in South Carolina, and Jane had gathered that they were similar here in England.

Two months of Lady Cecily! Jane groaned aloud thinking of it, and decided that after one month had passed, she would force William to discuss finding a place of their own. She did not need a house with an unused ballroom and eight grand bedchambers for family and guests anymore than she needed Lady Cecily's insults. Nor did they need all the rooms that were Sir John's preserve—though he appeared to share them gladly with his brother. Across from the dining room and morning room were the library, and a billiard room that let into Sir John's smaller private study. When the men were out, Jane would sometimes creep into the library to borrow a book. She did not like to do so when deep voices and cigar smoke drifted through the closed door.

It was not all unpleasant. Letty's heartfelt joy in her new life brightened Jane's days. Her sister threw herself into being a Londoner: poring over the latest issues of the _Lady's Magazine,_ studying the goods in the shops they visited. Jane did not mind going out a-shopping, even if she was careful as to how much she actually spent. The smallest things pleased her sister: a little blue bottle of musk, a new novel, exotic feathers to trim their hats. A stop at Negri & Gunter's to sample the ices was a delight to them both. Jane had heard of eating flavored ices, but had never before had the opportunity. At Gunter's, they were served everyday, and Negri & Gunter's itself was a kind of place outside her experience: an eating establishment where unescorted ladies could order delicious refreshments, without having to sequester themselves in a private room.

Jane's room had improved with the arrival of a clean new mattress and some fresh hangings of dark yellow. A patterned quilt of her own was spread upon the bed. She did not think she would ever love the place, but it was acceptable. Her books were there, and she could play her own little instrument without commentary by her mother-in-law. She could sleep there without feeling that Lady Cecily was listening to her every breath, and William now slept there with her, unless he was out very late, as he so often was.

As to William, he too seemed happy enough. A little restless, perhaps: a little dissatisfied at his attempts to make people understand what the war was like and the mistakes that had been made. Jane gathered that even among other soldiers, there was a certain lack of interest. The war was not going well, and people did not want to hear about it. They did not care about the sufferings of the loyalists: people far away about whom they knew nothing. William had persisted, however, and now he said they would listen when he talked about the unhappy fate of his soldiers, wanting to make certain they would be provided for in case the worst happened.

She saw some of the Whig newspapers, too, and now and then her husband was mentioned. Horrible things were said about him. Jane knew it was the usual political rhetoric that she hated and found so boring, but she did not like her husband to be hurt by all the lies. The Whigs accused him of having been terribly cruel to the freedom-loving Patriots. Much was made of the Hayne affair, making their good friend Lord Rawdon sound like a murdering tyrant. Jane threw the paper down in disgust. Whoever had written the article knew nothing about South Carolina. And they clearly had never met Benjamin Martin. She wondered how the author of the article would have liked suffering through an attack by those rebels. The whole thing made her want never to read a newspaper again.

There were two great consolations in living here. The first lay in her vicarious pleasure in Letty's music lessons. The harp master was too busy with Letty and Penelope to have much time to spare for her, but Jane watched carefully, and could usually find a spare half hour in the day to practice by herself. She spent a little time daydreaming about purchasing her own harp, but knew that such an extravagance would be impossible any time soon.

And Signor Bellini's singing lessons were fascinating. Jane found herself learning more about music than she had ever dreamed. Occasionally, Bellini wished Jane to play, so he could watch Letty more closely, and he was always gracious and complimentary about her ability to accompany her sister's voice. Listening to his insights about the music, she found herself becoming a better musician than ever before. And he talked so well too: telling them about places where he had sung, and concerts in London, his travels, and composers with whom he had worked. He knew everybody: Linley, Hook, Arne, the Haydn brothers, Salieri, Mozart. As a young boy soprano, he had even met the great Handel. His stories, which he interwove with his musical advice to Letty, were an education in themselves.

Another source of happiness was the nursery. Jane spent hours there with Moll and the baby, more relieved than ever that she had not ceased nursing William Francis herself. Moll had cleaned the place meticulously, and arranged her favorite finds to best advantage. It was, without question, Jane's favorite room in the entire house. There were times that Jane wished she could take her meals there, too, for the windows showed such a pleasant view—even when it rained (and it seemed to rain nearly every day)—and Jane could sit in a chair and do some sewing and chat with Moll about her nurserymaid's own impressions of their new home. They would go through the toys, and occasionally rearrange the wonderful doll's house.

One large box-like object Penelope told her was the remains of a puppet theatre. Jane was restoring it to its former glory, with the help of Moll and the lively footman, Tom, who was handy with a bit of carpentry. Jane had never had such playthings herself, and was as astonished by them as Moll. But these pleasures could just as easily be enjoyed in a house of her own. As soon as they were established, Signor Bellini could come to them, of course. And what tremendous fun it would be to furnish her own nursery! In this, if in nothing else, Number Twelve Mortimer Place would be her model.

But wait! There was another source of happiness today, for after dinner they were to visit one of the great sights of London, the famous Pantheon.

-----

Green and purple and soft, soft, gold. The multitude of lights shaded with softly colored glass glowed down on the great interior like the stained glass of a cathedral. The Pantheon on Oxford Street, however, was not a house of worship, unless one considered the worship of pleasure a bonafide religion in its own right.

The Tavington brothers helped their ladies push through three huge card rooms, each more splendidly decorated than the last, while Letty could not keep from crying aloud in awe and delight. Jane was open-mouthed herself, trailing after her husband and his family, thinking this was quite the most beautiful place she had ever seen. And then they ascended a magnificent staircase, and an enormous round hall opened out before them, making everything else they had seen before look paltry in comparison.

People were promenading about under the vast coffered dome. Circling the floor were two levels of alcoved boxes with gilded chairs and tables . Across the room an orchestra was playing, the biggest group of musicians Jane had ever seen assembled. She would have liked to have sat nearer the musicians, for the music was confounded with talk, laughter, shouts, and shrill exclamations from hundreds of well-dressed people.

Letty turned to her, very excited. "It's lit up like day! Only prettier," she added. Jane simply nodded, her head swiveling as she tried to comprehend the scene before her. Lady Cecily was glaring at her. Jane quickened her step and swept Letty along with her to the designated box. Sir John was smiling grimly, waiting only until the ladies were settled before urging his brother to join him at cards. Jane wanted just to look for the moment, and barely heard the snippets of conversation around her.

"--Yes, we'll be off in just a moment, John. I hardly see the need for hurry—"

"--Oh, look, Mamma! There is Sir Thomas Linley. He composed the music for tonight—"

"—Absolutely not, Pen. I gave in to the extent of escorting you all to this bacchanal. I'm refuse to sit here like a—"

And strangers were approaching, voices high and affected.

"—Lady Cecily, it has been too long—"

Letty turned to her, eyes wide and alight. "Isn't this Heaven, Mrs. Tavington? Wait, some of your powder—" She leaned forward to brush a little stray powder from the shoulder of Jane's gown.

The two of them had had their hair dressed high and powdered _a la mode._ Jane hated powder, but she admitted there was no one here who had not conformed to the style. At least they had had expert help.

A few days after their arrival, Penelope had approached Jane when she had understood the need for a lady's maid. Hesitantly, she asked if the place could not go to a girl recommended by a favorite charity. Jane saw no reason not to indulge her sister-in-law, and the next day, a gaunt young woman in grey had been presented to her.

She had curtsied, and given her name. "Margaret Pullen, ma'am."

Penelope whispered, "She is from the Magdalen, you see, my dear, but quite reformed."

Jane looked blank, and Penelope explained. "It is a place that shelters repentant fallen women. A most laudable institution."

It was hard to imagine that pale, lifeless young person as a wanton woman of the town. She was stick-thin, her knuckles red and swollen, her small mouth perfectly colorless. In her plain grey garb, she looked more like Jane's concept of a nun than a lady's maid. And yet, when asked and tested, she seemed to have a perfect knowledge of hairdressing, of fancy sewing, of the current fashions. She smiled briefly when Letty began chatting about the proper way to clean lace. It was the only sign during the introductions that Pullen was anything but an automaton.

But she had done well for them, and Jane felt they both appeared to advantage tonight. Letty had sat by Pullen, directing her as she applied Jane's cosmetics and dressed her hair, the two of them consulting like two professionals on the arcana of making the most of what one had. And then Letty had sat at her table, while Jane looked on, and Pullen turned her half-sister into a princess.

Letty looked perfectly lovely. Her silk gown, the rich color of Madeira wine, stood out against the crowd of women in paler colors. She certainly contrasted with Jane, who was wearing her pale rose gown of last year, though altered to fit both style and new figure. Both of them wore pearls, and Jane wondered if anyone, meeting them for the first time, would see a family resemblance.

Several of Lady Cecily's acquaintances were being introduced. Jane kept her smile fixed during her mother-in-law's inevitable hesitation when she said, "Mrs.—um—Tavington." In their finery, painted faces, and powdered hair, everyone looked just the same to Jane, and she wondered if she would remember any names at all.

A number of the ladies were all but flirting with William—wait, they _were_ flirting--

Lady Cecily noticed it too, and gave Jane a mocking sneer. Jane smiled cheerfully at her, not wanting Lady Cecily to see how much she hated other women admiring her husband, feeling that first impressions were correct, and that she was never going to like her husband's mother.

Sir John was plainly out of patience. "Come on, Will. Danforth is keeping places for us at the tables. Let the women chatter."

Tavington shrugged, and excused himself, smiling at the disappointed murmurs that followed him.

Jane touched his sleeve as he passed, catching his attention, "Don't forget, sir," she reminded him. "I must leave at eleven." She could not be gone longer, for the baby's sake. The Pantheon, unlike Vauxhall or Ranelagh, was not so far away that Jane could not have a few hours amusement, which is why their party had settled on it for tonight.

"Yes, yes, Madam," Tavington answered impatiently. "I assure you it is all arranged. The carriage is ordered. I will see you home then, and then return here. Do not concern yourself."

He was gone, in a flash of green with his brother, falling into step with some other gentlemen they seemed to know well.

Penelope, who was on Jane's other side, pointed out everyone she knew, giving them individuality with gossip and anecdote. "Really," she told Jane, "it is rather thin tonight. Most of the _ton_ is in the country or at the watering places, this time of year. But the music is very nice, don't you think?"

"Very nice," Jane agreed. "I only wish I could hear it."

Her eye was caught by the most elegantly dressed man she had ever seen. Jane could not see his face, but he had wonderful presence. About her husband's height, and in a confection of melting blue and gold that would have looked gaudy on a less dignified individual. He had a tall and elegant walking-stick, and he strolled with a perfect combination of gravity and unconcern. He moved in their direction, and then stopped, and Jane could see his face.

Alas, he was old, she saw with disappointment. At first glance, he might appear handsome, but that was the paint, giving an illusion of what might have been his past appearance. Perhaps he noticed Jane looking, for he glanced at their party, and seemed amused. After a moment, he shook off some companions with him and came to speak to them.

Lady Cecily recognized him, and Jane was interested to see that the sight of him had disconcerted her. The stranger made an elaborate bow to them, and Lady Cecily composed herself to make the introductions.

Yes, she was definitely uneasy. Jane was curious to know who could have that affect on her mother-in-law, but it was hard to hear Lady Cecily's unusually subdued tones in all the noise.

"—My lord, you do not know these ladies. This is Mrs. Tavington, the Colonel's wife. Beside her is her sister, Miss Rutledge. Mrs. Tavington—Miss Rutledge, this is my old friend, Lord Fanshawe."

"Ladies," beamed his lordship, seeming very happy to meet them all. "I am astonished at such beauty left unguarded! Are you without an escort?"

"My sons," Lady Cecily said through clenched teeth, "are at the tables."

"Ah! The family passion! Well, good luck to them! It seems you are in need of protection, and I am only too happy to provide it."

There was little Lady Cecily could do, except invite him to join them. Jane puzzled over their contrasting demeanors: Lord Fanshawe, smiling and affable, and Lady Cecily, stiff and tense. Jane wondered why such a rude woman would not cut the man dead, since she plainly wanted nothing to do with him.

The two of them began a quiet conversation, which was hopelessly drowned out by the orchestra and its inattentive audience.

Penelope whispered, "Lord Fanshawe was an old friend of our father's, really; not Mamma's. He has a very scandalous reputation!"

Letty leaned in, wanting to hear, "Really? He looks so gentlemanly. I never saw such a graceful bow."

"Oh, yes—he was a great—" she dropped her voice to a confidential hiss "—_seducer_ in his youth. 'Beau' Fanshawe they called him, because he was said to be the handsomest man in England."

"Well," Jane said dryly, "he isn't anymore."

Letty cocked her head. "I can see that he was very handsome once. His eyes are still beautiful."

Jane laughed discreetly. "You just like them because they are so blue."

They were a beautiful color, she admitted: the vivid blue of good sapphires. One could still see the beautiful bones of the old man's face, holding together the ghost of past glories. He held himself straight, which had given the illusion of youth at a distance, but from the sagging skin and the lines, he must be seventy at least.

Penelope positively giggled. Caroline, very badly placed to hear their conversation, moved away from her mother, and sat down by Letty. "They don't want me to listen to their conversation anyway," she said, very low. "I fear that Lord Fanshawe is one of those to whom Mamma owes money."

"One of the many," Penelope sighed. "I wish we could take a turn around the room, but Mamma does not like to be left alone."

"I wish we could hear the music," Jane confessed. "Why do they have such an orchestra, if no one is going to listen?"

They did listen for awhile, as more and more of Lady Cecily's friends came by to gossip. Jane was distracted by a louder effort from the orchestra, which featured a brilliant trumpeter, and then by some friends of her sisters-in-law, who were very curious about her marriage.

Letty found herself once more unable to hear the conversation at all, and was about to move closer, when a voice in her ear said, "And what does the fair flower of the Carolina colonies think of the metropolis?"

She nearly jumped, so startled was she. At her side was Lord Fanshawe, sitting down quite at his ease, looking at her very complacently. "I am sorry," she apologized, reflexively. "I was so surprised—"

"Surprised that one would wish to speak to you? Surely not! Lady Cecily roused my curiosity by the brevity of her introduction. I was forced to demand particulars. When a gentleman long absent appears with a wife, one would think the gentleman's mother would have more to say."

"We have only been in England a little over a week. I doubt Lady Cecily knows my sister well enough to describe her justly."

"Nor to describe you—justly. I am told you are a pretty sort of girl. That is manifestly unjust, for it is clear to all that you are the most beautiful woman in the room."

This was too much. Feeling frightened by so much notice, Letty turned her head, and muttered, a little incoherently, "No—no, really, sir—my lord."

Fanshawe studied her a little longer. "There is no reason to be frightened, my dear young lady. I am but an old man. If an old man cannot pay you compliments, who can? I repeat, you are the beautiful woman in the room—nay, in the entire Pantheon. I am an acknowledged judge, and you must abide by my decision."

Unwillingly, she smiled, and dared to glance at him. He was still smiling, perfectly easy and calm. He was not leering, or looking as if he would grab at her. "Well, then, my lord—I thank you, but I have seen many beautiful women here tonight."

"Really?" His surprised gaze swept the room. "I haven't. Oh, a great deal of silk and paint and powder, to be sure, but you, my dear young lady, are quite another matter. But I can see that personal compliments distress your modesty, and so we will speak of other things. To return to my first question: does London Town please you?"

"Oh, yes!" Letty was too excited to be fearful. And besides, he was, as he said, an old man. This was her favorite subject. "I love it. I have never been so happy. I told my sister when we came in here that this is like Heaven—or like Heaven ought to be—the lights, and the decorations, and the beautiful music—"

"Ah, the unjaded eye! To be young again and seeing it all for the first time! I regret I was already all too familiar with London's many beauties at your age. However, I remember well that thrill when I first laid eyes on Saint Mark's Place in Venice, and yes—when I journeyed to the land of the Turks and saw St. Sophia in the rose-red light of sunset…" He looked dreamily about him. "This place is modeled after it, as I'm sure you know."

Letty blushed, and murmured, "No, my lord. Modeled after what?"

He did not seem to despise her, and said, "The great basilica of Saint Sophia in Constantinople. It's now a Mohammedan mosque, of course. Still sublime, anyway. I think this is one of the most beautiful interiors in London."

"I'm sure it must be," Letty earnestly agreed. She had never heard of Constantinople, and hardly knew what the old lord what speaking of, but he seemed to like the place as much as she, and that was a great recommendation, in her mind. "I have never seen such beautiful buildings as I have now in London," she confided. "We are staying with Lady Cecily in Mortimer Square and that is all so impressive! The church we went to on Sunday was so grand. Across the square is Lord Colchester's house—which is very big indeed."

"Do you think it beautiful?"

She lowered her voice, uncertain. "It is very imposing, but I don't know—"

"You are quite right. The side walls along the garden are a mistake. Too blank. It makes the whole thing look boxy and ungraceful. You have a good natural eye, Miss Rutledge."

"But Lady Cecily's house is so beautiful! The plasterwork is so white against that beautiful yellow of the walls. And I love to look up at the-- oculus. The way the sun comes down through it makes me feel—I don't know—"

Fanshawe looked at her with more attention. "I think you and I have something wonderful in common: a hunger for and appreciation of beauty. Have you seen any paintings in town that pleased you?"

"I don't know much about paintings. I never thought about them being beautiful. Back in Charlestown, they are all of ugly men who own property. I have not really looked at the paintings in Lady Cecily's house. They are mostly old people and horses."

Fanshawe could not hide his amusement. "Yes. I agree that taste in fine art was never a Tavington strong point—nor a Mortimer one, for that matter. Old people and horses!" He chuckled. "I have suggested to Lady Cecily that a painting of her handsome soldier son at his vigorous time of life would improve the general level of portraits on her walls. Someday—" he paused, with an odd look. "--I would very much like to show you some of _my_ paintings. Beautiful young women—heroic mythological scenes—sun-drenched landscapes from Italy. I also have some wonderful classical marbles that I picked up on my travels."

His lovely companion was clearly not understanding that last. He explained, with the benevolent air of a kind teacher. "Statues from Greek and Roman times. There is one of a dancer that I particularly like."

Letty thought about that. "It sounds interesting. There is a statue in Charlestown, but it is only a politician. A woman in pretty clothing would be nicer to look at."

"I agree entirely. A woman in pretty clothing is _always_ a finer sight. I am glad, though, that you find Lady Cecily's home otherwise charming."

"Oh, yes! I have my own room—a room all to myself! It has blue draperies and white and blue—" she remembered the word "—_Delft_ tiles around the fireplace. I love blue. Have you ever noticed how many different kinds of blue there are?"

Fanshawe studied her face with growing pleasure. "Indeed I have. It is a very pleasant thing to contemplate. Such considerations are essential to my occupation."

"Your occupation? I thought lords did nothing at all."

Fanshawe threw back his head with a delighted laugh.

Letty persisted. "What _is _your occupation?"

"Collecting beautiful things."

That puzzled her. "Is there much money to be made in that?"

Another laugh. "Not much to made, but a great deal can be spent, and a great deal of pleasure had in the collecting."

-----

"I believe the game is mine, gentlemen," Sir John declared.

There were groans around the table, and the other players rose to look for wine, women, or the watercloset. "I generally play at White's," John complained to his brother. "Don't have to put up with all this swish and tits at _White's." _

"Bear up, John," Tavington laughed. "Besides, whist is a safer game. I can't understand why you play faro, anyway. The house odds—"

Sir John gave a devilish smile. "The house odds are quite all right, when one is the _dealer." _

"Ah." Much now became clear.

"I make damned good money dealing faro at White's, Will. You should try it. Aside from my own winnings, I'm paid a guinea an hour. It adds up, quite nicely."

"I should say so."

They had won quite a bit tonight, playing partners. John might not claim to know much about anything else, but he was an excellent player, and generally won more than he lost.

"What I really don't understand," Tavington said, looking at the table, "is why Wargrave isn't generating the income it used to, John."

"Well, old fellow," his brother admitted, "it's mostly my fault. I let Porter have his head in running the place, and I don't go there often. I daresay he robs me blind, but as long as I get at least three thousand a year, I can't complain. I certainly don't want the bother myself!"

"But, good God! That's throwing money away! In Papa's day, I know his income was over ten thousand!" A few curious faces turned their way. Lowering his voice, Tavington apologized. "I'm sorry, John. It's really none of my affair, but I hate to see you being cheated."

"Never mind, Will. The fact is, some of Papa's income came from the other estates, and those are long gone. Wargrave itself might squeeze six thousand in a good year, but I hate all the rubbishy nonsense of being lord of the manor."

Tavington pulled his chair closer. "Let's go to Wargrave soon, John. I find I really haven't much to do being colonel of the 3rd. It's like being a figurehead. St. Leger does most of the administrative work, and the day to day is the province of the captains. Until the King returns to London all we have is drill. I need something to do. You said it yourself. We can get away and do a bit of shooting—see the place—look over the accounts."

John rolled his eyes.

Tavington tried again. "I'll do it, if you like. I got rather good at regimental accounts in America. Let's just have a look at the place for old times' sake. If you don't mind, I could bring the girls and get them away from Mamma for awhile."

"God knows they need a holiday from the old woman. All right. I do understand, Will. After all, the place will be your boy's someday, and you have every right to want it looked after. I'm warning you, though. It's a rotten old pile, and there's no one around for miles to talk to."

"What about the parson of Wargrave Cross—what's his name—Doctor Crumby? He was a nice old fellow."

"Oh, Lord! Dead over a year. Haven't gotten around to naming a successor. Rotten as the place is, the living is worth quite a bit. Fellow offered me five thousand for it, but I didn't like the look of him."

"Are you saying that there hasn't been a vicar there in over a year?"

"No. Sorry. Haven't gotten around to it."

Tavington was struck with a brilliant idea. "Look here, John. I know just the man. A good friend of mine from the army is going into the church—"

"Some scrubby army chaplain?"

The picture of the revolting Mr. Blethers flashed through Tavington's mind and made him laugh. "No! nothing like that. A captain of mine. A brave fellow. He was badly wounded in South Carolina and is planning on leaving the army altogether. He already has his degree and all he needs is to be ordained. Nothing to it."

"Not some Peter Pious? Not going to want us to start having services at the chapel again, is he?"

"No, not at all! A damned good fellow. He stood by me through it all, and I'd like to do something to help him and his family—"

Sir John pulled a pack of cards to him and shuffled them. "High card wins."

Tavington's face lit with understanding. "Are you serious?"

"Perfectly, old fellow. The Bishop's been hounding me anyway. High card, and you can give the vicarage _et al._ to your wounded comrade. Low card and I sell it to the highest bidder."

A few of the cardplayers came over to watch. "Tavington and his brother the colonel are drawing high card for the presentation of the living at Wargrave Cross," one of them told a friend.

"Really? Look here, Sir John. I'll give you seven thousand for that parish—"

"Silence, gentlemen!" commanded Sir John. "The game is afoot! You cut the cards first, Will."

Tavington reached out, swallowed, and turned over his card. "Six of hearts."

There was a murmur from the onlookers. Men of all ages, and not a few women were leaning over the table, holding their breaths.

"—Bad luck, that--"

"—A six! It could go either way—"

"—I'll give you _eight_ thousand—"

Sir John gulped the last of his wine and took a card. He turned it over, looked at it, and raised his brows.

"—I say, that's not fair! Let us see what you've got—"

Sir John flicked the card onto the table, face up. "Five of spades."

Tavington nearly leaped from his chair. "Ha!" he cried, knowing that he was grinning like a fool.

John did not seem at all put out. "I told you, old fellow. It means little to me. Glad you get something out of the wreck of the family fortunes. Anyway, write your military friend and tell him to bustle on home and convert the heathen of Essex at sword's point. The Fighting Parson! Won't that be a joke?"

"He'll do very well. He's quite clever and has a very sensible wife. It will mean a lot to his family. Thank you, John. I won't forget this." _Forget?_ "Good God, look at the time! I promised to take Jane home at eleven!"

Sir John shook his head in compassion. "A pitiful sight. My brother, the henpecked husband."

"Oh, rubbish! I'll be back in less than an hour. She'll be so happy to hear about this."

-----

"You _cut cards_ for it?" Jane stared at her husband in astonishment. Or tried to stare. The coach lanterns shone only dimly through the fog. It was very nice of William to escort her home, when the others of their party were still enjoying themselves at the Pantheon, and might well be there for hours. Though she could not clearly see his face, she could hear the happiness in his voice.

"Yes! And I won! I almost never win against John. He's nearly as good as Bordon himself! I shall write first thing tomorrow."

"How nice," said Jane, thinking that it was a very dubious way to select a parish priest. "I shall be very happy to see Captain Bordon—no, _Mr._ Bordon again—and to meet his wife. How odd life is!"

"Very." Tavington really was quite enchanted with this turn of fate. He had inherited next to nothing from his family. His own money had been spent in his father's lifetime, the small estate intended for him disposed of for debt, and what had not been sold was entailed on John. The Tavington family had once had considerable local patronage in the church. Now only the three parishes that comprised the Wargrave estate remained: High Grave, Larrowhead, and Wargrave Cross itself.

The two others were far from the country house, but the vicarage of Wargrave Cross was less than half a mile from Wargrave Hall. A brisk walk only, even in the winter. He remembered the vicarage as quite a nice house, though how well maintained was a serious question. At any rate, he would write to Bordon immediately, and urge him to come on the first ship. John had told him that the income from the parish glebe was a good round seven hundred a year. A decent income for a gentleman's family, even without considering any private resources that the Bordons might have.

It was only a few minutes to Mortimer Square. Jane glanced up to the faint flickering light in the nursery window, impatient to be there. She hardly felt her husband's hand as he helped her down and saw her safely through the door. Dropping her satin cloak into Rivers' hands with hardly a backward glance, she called out, "Goodnight, then, William. Enjoy yourself."

She was running lightly up the stairs, as quickly as she could with her high-piled hair and high-heeled slippers. Tavington had thought she looked quite well tonight, but it seemed to matter little to her. It was clear that being a mother meant more. Perhaps that was as it should be. Nonetheless, he felt oddly lonely as he climbed back into the carriage, to return to the whirl of gaiety.

* * *

**Note:** Over three hundred reviews! This is wonderful! Thank you to all who have reviewed, and a special thanks to my anonymous reviewers, to whom I have not been able to reply personally. Feedback keeps me going, and many of you have had intriguing, useful ideas. 

Readers of Regency romances may have heard of Gunter's in Berkeley Square. Gunter did not become the sole proprietor until 1799.

The original Pantheon burned to the ground in 1792. The rebuilt Pantheon went through many incarnations, until it was demolished in 1937 to make way for a branch of Marks and Spencer.

Lord Fanshawe is played in my head by Peter O'Toole, by the way.

**Next—Chapter 32: Revelations and Quarrels**


	32. Revelations and Quarrels

**Chapter 32: Revelations and Quarrels **

Tavington hated the visit to Lord Ravenswood. For nearly an hour, he and John waited in a gilded anteroom to be received, glancing at their watches. Finally, John sat down gingerly on an ancient and delicate chair, while Tavington himself continued to pace. It was very uncomfortable, and Tavington began to feel again that awkward uneasiness that had plagued him when he had served under the disapproving Cornwallis.

John growled, "If he doesn't want to see you, he could bloody well just tell his servants to say he's not at home. Who does he think he is, keeping us dancing attendance like this?"

"He thinks—no, he _knows_ that he's the one who got me my promotion, John. Besides, everyone says he's very unwell. I do owe him a debt, and Mamma too, by extension. No doubt she pecked at him until he exerted his influence."

"No doubt. Look here, in another quarter hour, let's give it up as a bad job, and head on home. You said you wanted to see how that new carriage of yours was progressing."

"I would, actually."

"Still think you should have chosen the barouche. They've got a lot of style."

"I agree, but a barouche is just not practical in my situation. It's got to be a closed carriage. A barouche top can only be raised to protect the back seat. I've got too many women with too many feathers to consider. And there's the boy, too."

"I should toddle on up to the nursery and have a look at your progeny. I also heard whispers about the warlike Amazon you took on to tend him. Must see the wonder with my own eyes."

"She's a terrific shot. Killed a brace of rebels at a remarkable distance. Can reload on the fly. And she's a damned good nurserymaid, too."

A scornful servant appeared. "His lordship will see you now. Walk this way, gentlemen."

Sir John raised an ironic brow at his brother, and obediently minced after the footman. Tavington restrained himself from giving John a shove.

They were led into Lord Ravenswood's cavernous bedchamber, walls populated with full-length family portraits. The old peer was certainly very ill, and Tavington was more willing to forgive the delay when he saw the shrunken body lying motionless in the monumental bed. A grey-wigged doctor glanced in their direction, busy with his instruments and bottles.

"Sir John Tavington; Colonel Tavington," the servant announced.

The brothers bowed. Tavington peered at their host, who seemed either asleep or dead. He almost started at the sound of a hollow voice, issuing from the bed. "I thank you, gentlemen, for your visit. I am, as you see, hardly fit to receive company, but I am glad to see you both. Come closer, I pray you. I would like to have a better look at you."

John's nose twitched at the smell of old age and decay. As a soldier, Tavington had smelled far worse, and did not flinch when a claw-like hand was extended, and then dropped back feebly.

He said, "I am very sorry, my lord, to find you so unwell. Thank you for receiving me, so that I may express my profoundest gratitude for your help in advancing me in my profession."

The old man's eyes were sunk into his skull like a skeleton's, but there was still a gleam in them as he very slightly shook his head. "No need for thanks. Tell your mother that the third time pays for all. She will no doubt understand that I am no longer in a position to be of further service to her."

Sir John cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I'm sure, my lord, that with proper care—"

"No. Stop. I'm dying, and I don't want any more lies." The old man peered at them curiously. "Has either of you seen your sister Lucy recently?"

Tavington was puzzled, but replied, "I have, my lord, seen her but a few days ago."

"Was she well?"

"Quite well and happy, my lord. She is the mother of a fine little boy, and is treated with the greatest regard by her husband, Mr. Protheroe."

"And so she should be. A hundred times too good for such a man. What a pity—" He stirred, as if trying to rise, and whispered, "Your mother has much to answer for."

To Tavington's great annoyance, his brother immediately replied, "She does indeed, my lord. I am entirely of your mind."

Lord Ravenswood smiled faintly. "She would never let me do anything for the girl, you know; but I got you, Colonel, three different promotions. She always favored you. Anyway, I'm done now. Third time pays for all." His eyes shut.

The doctor came forward, wanting them gone. "His lordship will sleep now. As you see, he is not long for this world, but you were among those to whom he wished to bid farewell."

Somewhat embarrassed, Sir John muttered a gruff, "Thank you, sir," and bowed to the physician. Tavington bowed himself, saying nothing, only peering curiously at the dozing shape in the great bed. _What did he mean?_

Outside, John turned to his brother. "What do you suppose he meant?"

"Raving, I suppose. Probably didn't mean anything at all."

"No." John waved the groom aside, as they climbed back into the curricle. "He had a message for the old woman, that's clear."

"I could drive back, John," Tavington suggested. He really liked John's light, fast little curricle.

"Not in a million years, old fellow." John took the reins, and in a moment they were moving around the carriage sweep at a fast trot. "No, he was telling us something. What do you think? Is that old fellow Lucy's father, do you suppose?"

"Good God! You're not suggesting—"

John chuckled. "I remember something of those years. I was a just a little lad myself, but I remember that Father and Mamma were at odds just after you were born, when he had that fling with the actress--whatever was her name? Mamma might have looked for a little comfort elsewhere."

"Good God!" Tavington repeated, repelled at the idea of his mother having intimate relations with anyone. "You don't suppose that I—"

"Hmm—" John grinned, and then relented. "Not a chance, Will. You look quite a bit like Father, except for the eyes. Lucy, now—well, well. That's very interesting."

"Whether or not it's true, Lucy must never know," Tavington said sharply.

"Oh, all right, I agree. It wouldn't do the girl a bit of good, but someday if Mamma provokes me, it might do for a—"

"No!"

"And what if he were to leave Lucy a bequest? It will all come out then anyway. At the very least, Will, you ought to give the old woman his message. He's done with her. 'Third time pays for all.' Then the old man can die in peace, without any more begging letters."

They rattled on down the road in silence, and at considerable speed.

"Damned good horses, John."

"Nothing but the best, old fellow."

-----

They stopped at the carriage-maker, at a horse-dealer, and then Sir John took his brother back to Mortimer Square, before heading to his club. "You're sure you won't join me?"

"No. Not today. I've things to do at home, and afterwards I should pass on Lord Ravenswood's message and get it over with."

"Rather you than I."

Tavington paused, listening to the sound of his brother driving away, before he sighed and went to the door.

Rivers met him, his usual efficient self. "Her ladyship wishes to speak to you, Colonel."

"Thank you, Rivers. Where is she?"

"In her boudoir, sir. She asked that you come to her as soon as you returned home."

_What does she want now?_ Tavington wondered. He was a little put out. It had occurred to him on the way home that he had not seen his son since they arrived. A brief break from daily noise had been welcome, but now after John's mention of him, Tavington felt a curious tug at his heart, a longing to see the little villain again. He had not seen Moll either. He ought to see how she was faring, after bringing her halfway around the world. He would go upstairs to the nursery after Mamma plagued him with her latest hobby-horse, and he gave her his news.

He climbed the stairs, uneasily curious. Mamma did not openly insult Jane in his presence, but he knew that once his back was turned, anything was possible. Jane had not complained, though, so it must not be too bad. It was very convenient for him to be living here again: convenient and comfortable, and a great financial boon.

He knocked. "It is I, Mamma."

"Come in, my dearest." The shades were lowered. Mamma sat in the kind half-light, exquisitely dressed and perfectly serene. Tavington was put in mind of a pampered cat on a satin cushion. _Even the most pampered cat still has its claws. _

"You wished to see me, Mamma."

She gave him a little sideways look. "I am always happy to see you, William. It is such a joy to have you home again, looking so handsome. Everyone is so delighted with you, and you are making a distinguished name for yourself, with your noble concern for your soldiers. That is all very agreeable." Tavington waited, feeling a little suspicious. His mother continued smoothly, "You have not forgotten my dinner Wednesday evening, I hope?"

"Of course not."

"Please speak to John about it. It would not look—you know—a dinner in your honor, and John not present. I'm sure he would not wish to slight you. Do speak to him and make certain of his attendance."

_Oh. Nothing too difficult, then._ Tavington expelled the breath he had been holding. "I have already spoken to him, Mamma. He will be present. We discussed it on the way to see Lord Ravenswood."

"And how is my good old friend?"

"He is very ill, Mamma, and his physician holds little hope for him."

She seemed in no great distress at the news, but asked only, "And did he mention me?"

Swallowing his distaste, Tavington answered, "He did, Mamma. He said that his health prevented him being of any further service to you. The phrase was 'third time pays for all.' I daresay you understand what he meant."

"Yes." She frowned. "Well, at least he obtained your promotion. It is very vexing that we can hope for nothing else—especially now-- from that quarter. If only John made more of an effort to cultivate men of influence! He lacks all ambition."

Plainly Lord Ravenswood mattered little to her, being no longer of any use. Tavington said nothing, not wanting to hear anything that could disgust him further. His mother's attention turned to herself.

"My dinner on Wednesday is but an intimate affair, my dearest, but I hope it will further reestablish you in your proper sphere." Lady Cecily gave him the ghost of the sweet smile he remembered from childhood. "Sir Joshua Reynolds is invited. I have commissioned him to paint your portrait. You can discuss the particulars with him on Wednesday—which uniform you prefer, and so forth. I think you can agree that such a portrait, publicly displayed, would raise the right people's interest in helping you in your design to assist your veterans."

He nodded. "Yes. I agree. It can certainly do no harm."

A shadow of discontent furrowed her brow. "The guest list will be somewhat different than I had anticipated. I notified your Uncle Colchester of your arrival, and received an express that he would be coming to London to see you! He has always been fond of you," she admitted reluctantly, "and no doubt considers it a great concession to leave the country and its sports for even a few days. Lord and Lady Sattersby will accompany him, and they will dine with us. Knowing whom he likes and does not like, I was forced to reconsider some of my potential guests. I hope you are not inconvenienced."

"Not at all, Mamma. I would be very pleased to see my uncle again."

She played with her fan, tapping it on the arm of her chair. "Another guest I had not originally intended—" she paused, and smiled again. This was not a pleasant expression. "My dear, I have always prided myself on my honesty."

Tavington's brows rose. He did not utter the words that hung between them. _Since when? _

His mother ignored his expression, and added,"To be perfectly candid, I find myself in some little difficulty—"

"Of what kind, Mamma?"

"I have had a recent stroke of rather bad luck at the tables, dearest. One does not care what owes mere grubbing tradesmen, of course, but debts of honor—"

Tavington began to feel rather ill. This, then, was the reason for their little tete-a-tete. "How much do you owe in all, Mamma—and to whom?"

"His name hardly matters," she laughed lightly. "_One_ of my creditors had become _exigeant,_ I fear. Tiresome of him, but he insists on being paid!"

"How much, Mamma?" Tavington repeated wearily.

She shrugged. "I must have two thousand pounds by Christmas."

Tavington shot to his feet. _"Two thousand pounds!" _Horrified, he stared at her, hoping he had heard amiss. It was a small fortune. He had no idea Mamma was so dreadfully in debt. "I cannot give you two thousand pounds!"

"Of course you can, my dearest," she laughed. "Why else did you wed that ugly little nonentity? You told me she brought you twenty thousand. You can spare a little, surely, to help your family?"

He forced his anger down. This was his mother, after all. "I will not hear you speak so of Jane, and she _is_ my family. I will not give you her money to throw away at Mrs. Crewe's. If you are so unlucky, you ought to stop playing altogether."

"Nonsense!" his mother cried, angry in her turn. "It is just a streak of ill-luck. I can easily win back double the amount when Fortune smiles on me again. In the meantime, I hope you are not going to be a selfish boy. And to defend that ill-favored creature to me! I cannot think why. She is good for nothing but feeding her sickly little brat, like the lowborn cow she is."

Tavington stared at her, shocked into silence, and Lady Cecily approached him, teasing him with the tip of her fan. "Don't be difficult, William. It is only two thousand pounds. I shall never plague you again on such a silly matter, only the person I owe is so very determined to have his money!"

He caught at the fan, and pushed it out of his face with a grimace. "No, Mamma. I'm not going to give you the money. Jane's fortune is all we have, and it can't be replaced." _And if I were to give you the two thousand, Mamma, you'd want another, and another… _

"I've got to have the money, William!" she cried, her playful mask slipping.

"Then raise it yourself," he ground out, through gritted teeth. "You have clothes, you have lace, you have jewels, you have this enormous house full of valuables. You cannot tell me that there is nothing in this house worth two thousand pounds. Do not speak of this to me, and never insult Jane the way you just have, or I will leave, and you will not soon see me again." He glared at her, at the moment not caring if she ordered him out of her house forthwith. But she did not, and did not try tears with him, which would have ruined her artfully applied cosmetics.

Instead, she gave him a proud, disdainful sneer. "Just as you please, William. I think you are being horridly disagreeable. Such a trifle! And for your mother! But I shall say nothing, and bear it as best I may. Go now. You have made me very unhappy. Send my maid to me. I have a headache."

Without a word, he bowed, stiff with indignation, and strode out of the room, nearly knocking down his mother's French maid, who was just straightening up from having obviously listened at the keyhole. He growled at the woman, "You heard her. Get in there!" He could not escape to the nursery fast enough.

Lady Cecily reclined on her daybed, while Fabienne applied eau-de-cologne to her brow. William had always been a headstrong boy. Even as a child, he had not liked to share his toys. So much the worse. And John would never help her. John was a brute, and hated her. The girls' capital was beyond her reach, and the income from it for the quarter was entirely gone. She must find the money herself. William had said that he was certain that she had something in the house worth two thousand, but what? She considered the house and its contents, wondering what she could bear to part with. There were her diamonds—

Never! Those were _hers!_ _There must be something else! _

Quite suddenly, as she reviewed the house and each room in its turn, the solution came to her. She gave a great sigh of relief, and smiled up at the fussing lady's maid. It was not so much a matter of _what_ was worth two thousand pounds, as _who._

-----

Tavington took the stairs two at a time. His quick step caught the notice of the upstairs maids who gazed after him admiringly. Tavington was in no mood to give them a smile. He had not seen the nursery in years. The door was open, and he peered cautiously inside. The boy was not howling, at least. Was that Moll by the window?

"Come in, William," his wife called softly. Jane was in a chair by the window, feeding the baby. The boy seemed to have grown in only a week, and had more hair than Tavington remembered.

Moll was working at the table, sorting linen, and smiled when she noticed him. "Hello there, Colonel. Haven't seen you in a while."

"Good day to you, Moll. I hope you've found everything to your liking here."

"Yes, indeed, sir! A fine place. Sit yourself down. I'm just a-boiling up some tea. I reckon I can find a cup for you, too."

"I thank you." He took the seat by Jane, smiling at her relaxed expression. The boy was a hungry little glutton, to be sure. Tavington admired his wife's serenity at the baby's onslaught. "At this rate, he'll be dining on steak and kidney pie and saddle of lamb in a week or two!"

Jane laughed. "Well, maybe a month or two. Give the boy some time!"

Tavington looked about, remembering how much he had loved this place. "Ah! My first charger." He got up and walked over to the rocking horse. "Dear old Dapple-Grey! How many princesses we rescued together!"

Penelope appeared in the doorway, and began quoting,

"'_I had a little pony, __His name was Dapple-Grey—'"_

"Don't sneer at my war horse," Tavington demanded indignantly. "This noble beast here is the most reliable steed I ever rode. He never got a stone in his shoe, never was out of humor, never threw me—"

Penelope laughed out loud.

Tavington shrugged. "Yes—I remember that time, too, but it was not Dapple-Grey's fault."

Jane laughed, too, eager to hear more about her husband's childhood. "Your _rocking horse_ threw you?"

"He did not throw me," Tavington declared loftily. "He was attacked by a dragon."

"John ran into him, and they fell over," Penelope explained with a laugh. "What a crash! Nurse was afraid that William's arm was broken."

"Such thrilling play," considered Jane. "I was alone in my nursery—save for Letty, of course. We were very quiet by comparison. Good little girls stitching on samplers. A few dragons might have been welcome."

"Dragons prepare one for the terrors of battle. No battle line on earth can be as bad as a dragon." Tavington gave the rocking horse a push, and watched it for a little while, remembering. "Where is Letty?" he asked.

Jane smiled. "Practicing the harp. She's very diligent."

"And Caroline?"

Penelope was a little uneasy. "Ah—well—you know Caroline. She is generally in her room."

"I cannot help but wonder what she does there," Jane admitted. "She cannot simply be dealing with her correspondence." She rubbed the baby's back, and suggested. "Perhaps she is secretly writing a novel!"

Penelope was horrified. "Oh, please! Don't say that to anyone else! She'll think I betrayed her!"

Tavington burst out laughing. "Good God, Pen! Do you mean that Caro really _is_ writing a novel?"

"Hush!" Penelope looked around at Moll, who was busily making tea. "Ah, Mrs. Royston—"

"I won't breathe a word about anything Miss Tavington is doing. Don't read novels myself, but I know you all fancy them. Don't see why your sister can't write one if she has a mind to do it."

"It's just—our mother might think—"

Tavington grinned. "—And she would be right!"

"Just don't, don't say a thing about it. It gives such Caro such pleasure, and it is costs only the price of her writing paper. We get out so little, and it is sometimes so dull here—"

Tavington took the well-fed William Francis from his wife and laid the boy back on his lap, so the two of them could communicate with smiles and silly faces. Not taking his eyes from his son, he asked, "May one at least ask what the book is about?"

"Let me guess!" cried Jane. "A well-born young woman struggles against society's dictates—"

Tavington interrupted. "—which force her to be the sacrifice to the local dragon—"

"Oh, stop, William! –She is torn between suitors: one handsome and vicious; the other plain and virtuous—"

"—who duel to the death for the lady's hand—Yes, my boy," he growled, tickling the baby, "a duel to the death! Man to man—sword to sword—eyeball to eyeball—"

Penelope tried to hush them, terrified that others might hear. "Ssshh! Please! If you must know, it's about a young woman whose tyrannical mother takes her money and prevents her from marrying—"

Tavington could hardly contain himself. "No! I can't believe she would dare it! That's glorious!"

"Of course, she would publish it anonymously."

"Yes, of course," said Jane, not wanting to laugh too much. While it might be allowable for Penelope to criticize her mother, she did not think it would sound very well bred coming from Jane herself, a new addition to the family and Lady Cecily's guest. _But it's just what that awful woman deserves. Better no __mother at all than such a one! _

-----

Letty's gown was duly delivered, and pronounced a great success. It was one of the grandest dresses Jane had ever seen, with a price to match. Not satisfied that Letty try on the gown in the privacy of her own bedchamber with Pullen's help, Lady Cecily insisted that Letty parade in front of her to make certain that the fit was perfect. Jane resented her mother-in-law's high-handed behavior, but felt she was in too weak a position to defy her openly.

Letty, obviously, never considered disobeying Lady Cecily at all. Jane bitterly acknowledged that all those years of slavery had left her sister submissive and biddable. That much of that training was Jane's own doing made these reflections even more painful.

Because of these thoughts, she took a certain dislike to the gown. It was so very showy: a subtle silver-grey silk over a petticoat of a particularly intense rose. The lace edging around the shoulders and neck was starched up into a delicate frame that set off Letty's beautiful figure to perfection. The décolletage was very, very low. On Letty, the gown seemed to shout, "Look at my breasts! Aren't they marvelous?"

The bright petticoat too, made Jane uneasy. There was something about it—about the way that the front of the silver gown opened out on that rose-red petticoat, the intense color coming up in a point just below Letty's waist, that suggested—well—something secret and erotic. Something—it seemed impossible, but Jane felt it all the same—like a woman's private parts. Altogether the effect was very sensuous on Letty, an aggressively overt attempt at allurement.

To whom could she complain about this rather nasty display? It occurred to her that someone who did not know her well might imagine that Jane was jealous of Letty's beauty and of how wonderfully the gown became her. She was almost sure that she was not jealous. Rather, it was Lady Cecily who had angered her, dressing Letty like a doll, with no regard for her modesty or dignity—with no indication that she thought that Letty had feelings of any kind worth considering.

She tried, one night, as William slid into bed beside her, to tell him how unhappy she was. "Letty has a very elaborate new gown for the dinner on Wednesday."

"Hmm." He blew out the candle and settled back into the bedclothes, kissing her hand lightly.

"Your mother chose it, but I find it rather immodest."

"Mamma gave Letty a gown? That was very obliging of her."

Jane snatched back her hand, growing angry. "No! Your mother _chose_ that very expensive gown. It is I who _paid_ for it!"

He sighed. "Surely you don't begrudge the girl a pretty dress?"

She hissed back, "Of course I don't begrudge it! What I dislike is your mother making a show of her. The gown is perfectly ridiculous, and makes Letty look like a woman of the town! And I don't like your mother telling me how to spend my money!"

Tavington winced, staring up at the dim ceiling, very much disliking being put in the middle. "I'm sure the dress is not so bad as you think, Jane. You do not know the fashionable world as my mother does. I realize that she is extravagant herself, but why did you not simply say no?"

"Because she would have made the same accusation as you! That I am jealous of Letty! When I am the one who loves her and has cared for her!" A sob rose up, irrepressible, and soon Jane was shaking with grief and indignation. Tavington clicked his tongue, sounding vexed with the bother, and that was all Jane's store of wrongs needed to boil over. She rolled to her side, away from her husband, and lost all control. "I can't bear her! She's so rude and condescending! She makes me feel like _nothing_!"

Tavington reached out and touched her shoulder. "Jane—"

"Why must we stay here? It's horrible! I wish—" She stopped with a choking sound. Tavington had no trouble completing the sentence in his imagination. The awful unsaid words sizzled in the air like summer lightning. _I wish I had never left South Carolina. _

Tavington was tired, and briefly considered going to his own room to sleep. But no: that would be cowardly, and while he might easily leave Jane's bed, he might not find himself so easily readmitted. "I am very sorry you are unhappy here, Jane. I was not aware that you found it so disagreeable. You have always adapted so well before to all manner of situations."

"Are you saying that it's all my fault?" Her voice rose shrilly.

"No! I'm saying I did not know you were unhappy! I've been so happy myself, seeing John and my sisters that I've thought of little else." He rolled over and put an arm around her. "Try to bear with Mamma a little longer, Jane. And if she tries to make you spend money, tell her that I have forbidden you to make any purchases without my express approval." Another unpleasant thought crossed his mind. "And don't, for God's sake, give her any money if she asks for a loan. You'll never get it back. She recently approached me—"

Jane trembled, trying to control her tears. "What did you say?"

"I said no. She was displeased with me, but you must know, Jane, that Mamma has a weakness for gambling. It is very sad, but all we can do is refuse to fuel this mania of hers. Just tell her no, and say that I told you to say no. She'll have nothing to say to that. I'm sorry that this gown has troubled you so much."

"It was horribly expensive, and it means that there are so many other things that I cannot afford now."

"Do you need more money? I can—"

"No!" Realizing that she was sounded irrational, she softened her voice and said, "I don't want to start living beyond our means from the very first. I have set aside certain sums, and I will not go beyond them. I have enough to purchase new day dresses for Letty and me. We do not need anything else, no matter what the fine ladies of the _ton_ might think. And if your mother is tired of my three gowns for evening, that is simply too bad!"

Tavington gave her thin body a squeeze. "That sounds more like my Jane!"

-----

**Note: **As some of you have no doubt noticed, fanfictiondotnet is once again misbehaving. If you have reviewed and have not received a reply, be assured that I did reply and you will someday get notification. We'll all hope for better days.**  
**

**Next—Chapter 33: An Intimate Dinner **


	33. An Intimate Dinner

**Chapter 33: An Intimate Dinner **

Wednesday dawned, and Lady Cecily rose earlier than her wont, making the lives of the women under her roof a misery. Her daughters were run off their feet with last minute admonitions to the butler and the cook. Lady Cecily did not like the table setting, and demanded it all be reset with different china only an hour before the guests would arrive.

In the afternoon, Letty was groomed and dressed, and then summoned and examined for flaws. Pullen was called to account and verbally roasted for a stray curl that no one but Lady Cecily could perceive. Letty was stunningly beautiful in that extravagant gown, but the poor girl was forbidden to sit, lest she disarrange herself.

Jane had nothing to do but wait. She had been forced to be abrupt in summoning Pullen to her, quite against Lady Cecily's wishes. She donned her peacock blue gown, feeling rather provincial, pretty as the dress was. Next to Letty's magnificence, she thought she made a poor showing, and needed all her mother's pearls to support her spirits. She owed it to herself and to William to look her best, and tried to ignore her mother-in-law's affectation of incredulous dismay at her appearance. She was not entrusted with any of the preparations. Lady Cecily made it clear that she did not believe Jane capable of behaving properly in a social situation. Bored and restless, Jane sat down to the harpsichord to pass the time, and found Lady Cecily bearing down on her at once.

"Stop! The man has only yesterday put it in tune!" Behind her, her daughters stood by helplessly. Caroline made a little entreating gesture. Penelope blushed and looked away. Flushing with anger and embarrassment, and deeply offended to be addressed so, Jane got up at once, glared at her mother-in-law, and walked away without a word. She found Letty out near the staircase, trying to rest her feet by leaning against a wall.

"It the gown very uncomfortable?" Jane asked anxiously. "It looks it."

"It's not so bad, honey," Letty whispered back. "I'm just so tired of standing up. The guests won't be here for another hour!"

"Let's go up to my room. You can sit down there if you want to."

"Oh, no!" Letty looked frightened. "Lady Cecily might know that I went against her. I couldn't do that!"

Jane took a breath, and whispered back. "You can do as you like. Lady Cecily doesn't own you. I don't own you. If you want to sit down, no one has the right to tell you you can't!"

Letty shook her head. "I don't want her angry with me. I'd be afraid if she were mean to me like she is to you. Right now she treats me all right, but if I did one thing to displease her, that would change right fast!"

"'Very quickly,'" Jane corrected softly.

"_Very quickly_." Letty gave a shy laugh. "In the twinkling of a eye!"

Jane leaned against the wall herself. They rested there in silence, listening to Lady Cecily firing a volley of contradictory orders.

"Letty," Jane asked, "are you ever sorry we came to England?"

Her sister looked at her in astonishment. "Never! I love it here! I'd never go back—not if you paid me a thousand pounds!"

"I suppose it will be better when the Colonel finds a house of our own," Jane admitted grudgingly. "I wouldn't mind a little house like Mrs. Protheroe's. She and her husband seem so happy."

Letty regarded her with good humor. "Now, Miss-Mrs. Tavington. You know you'd like this house—very well indeed—if there were no Lady Cecily fussing at you all the time."

"I suppose."

"Though Lord Fanshawe says it could be improved with better paintings on the walls."

Jane glanced up from her study of her shoes. "You talked to Lord Fanshawe?"

"You were trying to listen to the orchestra the other night when we were at the Pantheon. Lord Fanshawe came and sat by me and talked about paintings and buildings and beautiful things he liked. He's such a refined gentleman. He didn't think much of this family's taste in pictures. He told Lady Cecily she should have someone paint the Colonel's portrait."

"Really?" Jane felt some pleasure at the thought. A picture of William would be worth looking at.

-----

At long last, the brothers Tavington emerged from their lair in the library, ready to do their duty; and shortly thereafter, the guests arrived.

"Mr. Bellini!" Rivers announced.

Letty glowed as her admired singing master arrived. He was greeted politely enough by the men of the house, and with patronizing charm by Lady Cecily. Jane knew that her mother-in-law wanted him to be present when Letty was displayed, so he could make plain to the less enlightened how well she sang. Bellini had a smile and kind word for Jane as well, giving her a gallant bow.

"Ah, the talented Mrs. Tavington! The night will be made more beautiful by your playing!"

Jane glanced at William, to see what he made of such compliments, but he had not heard them. Sir Joshua Reynolds, the famous portraitist, had arrived, and he, Lady Cecily, and William were already discussing the new commission. He was presented to them all, of course, but only very quickly. Reynolds' eyes lingered on Letty, as the man visibly composed a picture in his imagination, and then he was swept away, chatting with his hostess.

Others arrived: General Tazewell and his attractive younger wife; Colonel St. Leger along with Sir Barnaby Parrott, Lady Parrott, and their daughter.

Miss Melinda Parrott was a pale, peering creature, very elegantly dressed, who nearly stared Jane out of countenance, immediately asking her impertinently personal questions about her origins and fortune.

"I heard you had twenty thousand pounds, but you know how people gossip! I thought it might be exaggerated! I'm vastly pleased to see you're just what I heard!"

Jane managed a tight smile, hating to imagine what Miss Parrott _had_ heard. She asked, "Are your parents and Lady Cecily very old friends?"

"Oh, Lord! They've known each other forever and a day! Mamma and Lady Cecily are very thick together, and have such times at Mrs. Crewe's!" She peered again at Jane, "Fancy not seeing you there! _Everyone_ goes to Mrs. Crewe's!"

"I am no gambler," Jane said.

"La! How strange! I wonder how you can fill your hours! Only last week, a nabob lost everything he had brought home from India! It was so thrilling, watching him lose _his entire fortune!_ He said he must now go back and find another!" She giggled, revealing small yellow teeth.

"If I lost my entire fortune, I would find it rather difficult to find another." Jane replied coldly, wishing Miss Parrott would find another ear to chatter into. Alas, Miss Parrott seemed content to be where she was. Jane looked about for an escape.

Not far away was Sir John Tavington, looking excessively bored. Jane excused herself to her companion, and went over to speak to her brother-in-law. "How are you this evening, sir?"

"Very well, ma'am." He growled. "As well as possible with all this—" He bit back the complaint and made her a little bow instead.

Jane observed, "It means a great deal to the Colonel to have your companionship again—even for, shall we say, such a _formal_ occasion. He has said so, many times. He missed his family greatly when he was in America."

John unbent a little. She was a harmless little woman, after all. "Missed him myself, the rogue. Glad to have him back. Are you going to have the boy brought down after dinner?"

"I shall, if you like. I am not sure that Lady Cecily—"

"I don't care what the old woman likes. Bring the boy down. Uncle Colchester will want to see him, too. Sattersby and his bride haven't produced an heir yet, and the old man turns to pudding over children. Yes," he said decisively, liking the idea more and more, "have the boy brought down. It will improve the conversation mightily."

"The Earl of Colchester! Lord and Lady Sattersby! Lord and Lady Trumfleet!" Rivers intoned. There was a pause, as everyone's attention turned to the entrance of the exalted personages. The greeting between the earl and his sister was chilly but dignified. Less dignified was the nobleman's evident joy at seeing his soldier nephew once more.

"William! My dear boy!" He strode over, a healthy and vigorous man of some sixty-five years. A hearty handshake, a clap on the back, and a moment for each to assess what the years had done to the other. "My dear boy," the earl repeated, more softly and affectionately. "Thank God you're home."

"I'm very happy to be home, Uncle, and to see you so fit," Tavington replied, smiling in his turn, quite touched at such a welcome.

"Come, Sattersby! And Kitty, my dear," called the earl. "Come and greet your cousin!" Lord Colchester lowered his voice, and confided in his nephew, "and you will see we've had a fair addition to our family since your departure."

With a whisper of silk, a vision appeared before him. Lady Sattersby, the former Catherine Mitford, was a fair addition indeed. Tavington caught his breath; too surprised and entranced to feel the usual automatic antipathy in his cousin's presence. Lady Sattersby was a tall and shapely creature, with most ensnaring eyes. Tavington thought them black at first, but then, at closer quarters, he saw they were grey. A dark grey, the beautiful "Mary Queen of Scots" eye. They were full of clear light under an equally clear brow. Her luminous eyes, combined with her snowy skin and delicate features, made a most enticing image. She smiled, showing a pair of bewitching dimples, and Tavington felt himself a lost man.

Unluckily, there was Sattersby beside her, giving his own sullen greetings. Tavington remembered all his childhood resentment of his petulant younger cousin: wealth, a title, a kind father—and now, to have won such a prize! A wife with beauty, fortune, and noble blood. The gods certainly had smiled on Sattersby, but Tavington could not for the life of him understand why.

Jane watched the entry of the visitors from Colchester House with great interest. The earl himself seemed a jovial bear of a man. William had always spoken well of him. The Trumfleets, William's cousin and her husband, seemed notable only for the lavishness of their clothing and her jewels. Lord Trumfleet had little to say for himself, and his wife had a sharp, satirical look in her eyes that did not promise a pleasant acquaintance. Jane studied the Sattersbys more closely. She knew William did not care for his cousin Lord Sattersby, and she had pictured someone very different, for at first glance, Sattersby did not much resemble William.

Then Jane looked again, and saw that he was _exactly_ like her husband—if her husband had been ugly. The two cousins shared many features in common, but in Sattersby they had all gone wrong: Sattersby's eyes were the same ice-blue as Williams', but they were set too close to the over-long nose, making the man look rather foxy. He lacked William's handsome chin and mouth—nay, he lacked much chin at all, and he was spindly rather than lean. Altogether, he was a caricature of his cousin, and seemed to know it.

There was no time, though, to waste in considering Lord Sattersby, for in another moment Jane observed the introduction and the instant mutual attraction between her husband and his cousin's wife. She experienced a pang of jealousy and dislike that nearly felled her. William plainly thought Lady Sattersby lovely—which she certainly was—and Jane found it genuinely distressing. Never, since his affair with Selina, had she seen him publicly admire another woman. She had been caught off-guard, and it must show in her face. She glanced about, anxious to know if anyone had seen, but no one was looking at her. Letty was chatting happily with Signor Bellini; the military men were talking together. The earl and his family were gathered around William and Sir John. Caroline and Penelope were whispering together, as they often did. She was glad she had mastered her reaction, for a moment later, she heard herself mentioned.

"I've been told you are married, dear boy, and that you have a son! That is capital! Introduce me to your lady, I pray you." And then William was turning around, looking for her. Jane smiled, and stepped forward, feeling that her calm mask was firmly in place.

"Uncle, this is my wife Jane, who saved my life when I was sorely wounded."

"Madam, your servant," The earl gave her a very courteous bow, and Jane made up her mind to like him. "I am very happy to know you," Lord Colchester continued earnestly, "and I am very obliged to you for caring for one so dear to me. You must be a very kind and brave young woman. And a little boy, I hear! I hope to make the young gentleman's acquaintance tonight."

"I shall have him brought downstairs after dinner, if it pleases you, my lord."

"It does indeed."

The earl smiled down at her approvingly, and yet, Jane sensed, with just the slightest hint of condescension. _What do these people want of me?_ she wondered wearily. William continued with the introductions, presenting Letty to his uncle, who was all delight and compliments at the sight of the beautiful young woman,. Jane forced herself to stay at her husband's side, smiling through it all.

She was hoping dinner would soon be announced, when Rivers called out, "Lord Fanshawe!"

There was another stir among those assembled, more curious and less friendly than the attention paid Lord Colchester. The elderly viscount appeared, sublimely elegant, smiling with paternal kindness on high and low. Lady Cecily greeted him with every civility, which surprised Jane a little. She was not the only one to feel thus, for behind her Lady Parrott clucked her own concern to her daughter.

"Inviting Lord Fanshawe! And I know that Lady Cecily can't abide the man! What was she thinking?"

Jane was not sure herself, but she had the definite feeling that her mother-in-law was up to _something._

-----

There may be those who enjoy long, ceremonious, and luxurious dinners and the small talk that inevitably accompanies them. Jane had enjoyed such dinners herself, when the company was sufficiently entertaining. This, alas, was not one of those dinners. It was lasting too long, and Jane was becoming anxious for William Francis. Moll could only keep him distracted so long before he would be shouting the house down. It would be terribly awkward to walk away from the table, while everyone else was still exclaiming over the delicacies before them.

_It must have cost the earth._ Jane was not favorably impressed by her mother-in-law's prodigality. Even her brief stay had acquainted her with the money troubles in the household. This ridiculous dinner, with three separate covers, was far beyond Lady Cecily's means. The food was wonderful, if heavy and sometimes bizarre. Lady Cecily had a French cook, who produced some real marvels. There were skewered larks, and roasts pheasants, very high indeed with long hanging. There was a _vacherin_ conveniently near Jane—an exquisite filigree basket of meringue, filled with strawberries and whipped cream. But it was dull to sit and eat, and eat, and eat, when there were so few interesting conversations she could participate in.

Next to her was Miss Parrott, who was totally engrossed with Colonel St. Leger. On her other side was General Tazewell, whom she had just met. He was a pleasant enough man, who spoke well of William. His conversation about the war showed him quite ignorant on the subject of America and the situation there. It would be useless to correct him. Instead, Jane told him something about how the planters in the Carolinas made their fortunes, and then fell back on her great, unfailing topic of conversation with men: she asked him about himself.

It sufficed to make him think her a charming woman: he talked for over an hour about his family, his home, his wife, his children, his military service, and the petty injustices of promotion. Dull as it was, Jane found herself learning a great deal about how the Army operated at the highest levels. All she had to do was look interested, and utter the obligatory "Indeed!" or "Good Heavens!" or "Really?" at appropriate intervals.

Each end of the table had lively general conversations in progress. Sir John reigned at one end: but not alone. The old earl had insisted on sitting near his nephews, "so we can have a good jaw together," throwing Lady Cecily's seating plan into restrained chaos. Lady Sattersby and Lady Trumfleet were seated with those gentlemen, and they seemed to be talking about hunting with great animation.

At the other end, Lady Cecily held court, with Lord Sattersby and Lord Fanshawe at either hand. Somehow, Letty had been placed beside Lord Fanshawe, with Bellini on her other side. She appeared to be enjoying herself: eating very carefully, and looking about wide-eyed with pleasure.

In fact, Letty was having the time of her life. Everyone was being so kind to her. Everyone was talking about beautiful things. Sir Joshua discussed the Colonel's portrait with Lady Cecily and Lord Fanshawe, who had clever ideas about how it should look. And then Lord Fanshawe talked about all the faraway places he had seen, and Signor Bellini and he would go on about Italy, and even Lord Sattersby joined in, with memories of his Grand Tour. Letty, when appealed to for tales of her travels, had modestly demurred, until Lord Fanshawe had pointed out that she had journeyed farther than any of them.

"I suppose that South Carolina may be a goodly place," she said softly. "But it was simply home to me, so I hardly thought about it. And when we traveled into the wild backcountry to care for the Colonel—"

"—a distance," put in Lord Fanshawe quietly, "that I have ascertained to be roughly that between London and York—"

"--We were in such danger all the time."

Lord Sattersby gave an uneasy chuckle. "But surely—no one would harm a party of ladies—I mean—_really!" _

Letty hated to contradict a lord, but the interest generated in her story gave her strength to continue. "Indeed, my lord, they would, and did. We were stopped on the way to Camden by a party of militia that was driven off by the 17th Light Dragoons. The militia was going to steal our horses and everything we owned—even the coachman and footman. The leader taunted—Mrs. Tavington—saying she could _walk_ to Camden. It was February—and had the dragoons not come, we would have all perished in the wilderness."

There were astonished, sympathetic murmurs. Letty cleared her throat, finding the rest of her story too painful to dwell on. "On the way home, our coach was attacked by the cruel rebels. One of our party—she was shot dead in front of us—" Tears began to burn. "---I am sorry—I can say no more about it—the Colonel saved us—they would have killed us all, even the newborn baby—" She trembled and fell silent.

Lord Fanshawe patted her hand and then made her drink a little wine.

Finally, Lady Cecily said, "A most dreadful place. To think of my son suffering all those years in America!"

"But he is home now," soothed Sir Joshua, "and we have in addition these charming Carolina ladies. The colonies are the poorer for their loss!" He gave Letty a kind smile, and she managed to return it, rather weakly.

Bellini turned the conversation to the sights of London, and Letty felt the usual refreshment. She smiled and enthused with nearly as much energy as she usually did, only tormented by the niggling of her conscience. _Am I denying Mama? _

-----

As soon as Lady Cecily led the ladies from the table, Jane quickly passed her, with a cool word that she must care for William Francis, and that both Sir John and Lord Colchester had expressed a desire to see the child. Without waiting to hear any possible protests, she climbed the endless stairs and heard her little son's wails from the nursery. Her breasts throbbed in response, the milk starting already. She nearly ran to the door, skirts hiked indecently high, and rushed in, arms out for her child. Moll looked glad to see her, and helped her unhook and unlace her gown so that the little boy could be fed.

"I thought dinner would never end!" Jane cried, as she sank into the chair and felt the tiny mouth fasten on her hungrily.

Moll reached over to smooth the creases Jane was making in her gown. "Don't seem right that people keep a little fellow waiting for his supper while they have tables covered with food." She gave Jane a look of reproach. "You ought not to feel you can't get up and take care of your boy, just 'cause some rich folk are still feeding their faces!"

Blushing, Jane tried to excuse herself. "It would have made a stir—and it would have looked so particular—and Lady Cecily—" She stopped, and nodded, feeling ashamed. "You're right, Moll. I should have put my baby first. I will never be so silly and cowardly again."

"Then it's all right, then," Moll said. "Do you mind if I had my supper now? I'm right famished."

Moll's supper sat untouched under a cover on the table. Jane said, "Please, don't mind me. Have a good meal. And then, when William Francis is done, you might want to change your apron and cap, for the Colonel's uncle the Earl is here, and he has asked to see the baby. Sir John says he is very fond of children."

Moll muttered, digging into her hearty portion of mutton pie, "Glad to hear it." Secretly, she had been wondering when some of these fine lords and ladies would show some family feeling. The Colonel's sisters were all right, though they seemed to know nothing about babies at all. That high-and-mighty Lady Cecily had never set foot in the nursery the whole time they had been here, and Moll could not imagine a grandmother not caring about a fine fellow like Little Will. _'Tweren't natural._

Grand as the house and the nursery were, they needed to head on out and get their own place. Moll had made some good friends already, and she liked Tom and all, but there were things here that were just not _right. _She hated seeing Mrs. Tavington so worried and flustered about what her ladyship would think, when it was plain that her ladyship didn't think about anybody but herself.

The cook had given Moll a roast apple, too. Mutton pie and a roast apple stuffed full of raisins and cinnamon spice. Who could want for anything finer? Moll savored it, looking over at Mrs. Tavington, now much calmer and happier as she sat with her little boy. Tom was right—quality folk had a way of making themselves fussed about nothing, and filled up their time with dinners with too much food to eat and talk nobody listened to anyway. And this London was just too big—so big it was hard to get a good fix on it. Moll did not much care for the constant smell of coal smoke and the haze in the air. There was a little layer of coal grime over everything that even the constant rain could not wash away. Secretly, she had preferred what they had seen when they were driving through the country: miles of green land and big, healthy-looking forests. She had always lived out in the woods herself, or near the swamps.

It was good to be up here, at the top of the house, looking out over the big square. It gave her a little space to breathe. Charlestown had been crowded enough, but London would stifle you after awhile, if you didn't keep it at arm's length.

-----

With the departure of the ladies, more wine was brought out, and the men settled down to some informal chat.

St. Leger got up and moved down near Tavington, speaking in an undertone. "Look here, Colonel. I must ask you about your sister, Miss Rutledge."

Tavington raised a brow. "What is it you wish to know?"

"Ah—well, it's best to be forthright. Is the lady dowered similarly to her sister? I understood that Mrs. Tavington had twenty thousand pounds."

"Mrs. Tavington did, but I regret to tell you that Miss Rutledge has no fortune but her beauty and charm. They are half-sisters, and Jane's money came entirely from her mother's family. Their father had settled everything of his own on his sons from a more recent marriage."

St. Leger looked disappointed for a moment, and then shrugged. "A pity. She is a lovely young lady. You will understand, I think, that in that case I must admire her only from afar."

"I quite understand. And it would indeed be wrong to create any misunderstanding on the lady's part."

St. Leger moved over to talk with Lord Trumfleet, and Tavington considered him thoughtfully. The last thing he wanted was a poor younger son trifling with Letty and then dropping her for an heiress. Bad both for Letty's heart and her reputation. St. Leger was a handsome lad, and her head could be easily turned. He would keep an eye on his lieutenant-colonel, in case St. Leger were to change his mind…

And where had Lord Fanshawe come from? The elderly viscount was sitting beside him, smiling in a detached, interested way. Lord Colchester looked up and noticed Fanshawe, scowling a little from habit. Tavington sighed. The two men had nothing in common, for his uncle was all for hunting and shooting and the manly, outdoor life; and Lord Fanshawe, the aesthete and dandy, was urbane in the most literal sense of the world—a man about town, who sought out the pleasures and experiences only a great city could provide. And his reputation...

Lord Colchester's personal life had always been above reproach, and his marriage had been a happy one, though it had ended too early with the death of his Countess ten years ago. Lord Fanshawe, on the other hand, had been in his youth nearly as great a whoremonger and womanizer as Mad Jack Tavington, and had been married twice. His first wife had been a fabulously wealthy widow twenty years his senior, and the second the equally rich daughter of a duke. There had been ill-natured gossip about the deaths of his wives, but Tavington did not credit any of it. If gossips threw enough mud, some would always stick. The fate of the ladies, the first dead in a carriage accident and the other in childbirth, had been public enough that no rational person could hold Fanshawe culpable. Tavington was familiar enough with how one's deeds could be twisted by a clever enemy. The viscount's reputation was a tarnished one, but glamorous nonetheless. Now that he was an old man, why hold the deeds of his youth against him? He was harmless enough, certainly.

The viscount was still smiling at him, as if examining a painting or statue. Tavington noticed Sir Joshua on the other side of the table. Oh, yes, the portrait! Lord Fanshawe no doubt had a hand in that. Well, it was still a good idea, whoever had proposed it. And it was rather flattering.

His uncle broke into his thoughts. "My boy, it's providential that you are home when the weather is still so fine. Come on up to Colneford, and we'll have a hunt! Both of you! John, don't look like that: you know yourself you could do with a bit of country air. A fortnight would set you up for the coming Season. A hunt, and a hunt ball to please the ladies—Mrs. Tavington and her sister would enjoy that, surely!" He looked across at Lord Fanshawe, and gibed, "No much in your line, eh, Fanshawe?"

"Certainly not," replied the viscount with suspicious smoothness. "My views on hunting are too well-known. But I believe that your nephews would profit from the visit, and the young ladies would enjoy seeing a fine place like Colneford Castle. They can have had no acquaintance with the beauties of Essex."

"Well, er, that's very civil of you, Fanshawe. Very civil indeed." The earl was somewhat disconcerted by the viscount's sweet reasonableness. "What do you say, my boys? You and my sons and daughters, all together, dancing and riding. Make an old man happy!"

Tavington was quite taken with the idea. "If my duties permit, uncle—"

"Nonsense!" his uncle shot back. "Tazewell," he called out to the other end of the table. "Do you know any reason the Colonel couldn't take a fortnight's jaunt to Essex? Nothing pressing in the martial line, in there?"

"Nothing whatever," replied the amiable Tazewell.

Tavington was once more rather taken aback by the peacetime nature of his service in England. He had spent years in the saddle, in combat, riding over wild country facing danger. Now he could hardly feel himself more than playacting at being a soldier. There was so damned _little_ to do. A good hunt, riding cross-country after a fox seemed a blessed exercise. And he could see more of Kitty Sattersby—

"Then I think it a splendid idea, John," he told his brother. "You yourself were talking about getting away. Let's go! It would be very pleasant for Jane and Letty, indeed, and we could have a look-in at Wargrave while we were there."

-----

By the time Jane and Moll came down, cautiously carrying the baby, some of the men were already on the move back up to the drawing room to join the ladies. William Francis was in his finest cap and little dress, and wrapped in his best silk quilt. Jane looked up to see Lord Fanshawe approaching.

He gave her another bow. "Mrs. Tavington, your servant. And young Master Tavington, as well. Here, my good woman," he smiled at Moll, "let me have a look at him. I assure you I have held quite a few infants, and not one has ever come to harm. Hmm," he studied the five-month-old face with wry amusement. "Still a _tabula rasa, _though a charming one. In a few more months we shall see something of the future man, but for now he is simply an innocent cherub." He handed him back to Moll, and offered his arm to Jane. Escorting her to the drawing room, he remarked to Jane, "I regret that I have not had the opportunity previously to further my acquaintance with you. Your sister speaks so fondly of you."

"I am very fond of _her_," Jane replied coolly, somewhat stung that the viscount's good opinion of her was on the recommendation of one who had once been her slave. Forcing a smile, she entered the drawing room perfectly composed.

The drawing room had been enlarged by folding back the doors to the music room. At the far end of the room were the harpsichord and the harp, arranged as if for a concert. The ladies looked up as Jane and Lord Fanshawe entered: her sisters and Mrs. Tazewell smiling and friendly, Lady Cecily grimly hostile, the balance civil and indifferent.

No: not entirely indifferent. Colonel St. Leger entered the room a moment later, and on seeing him, Miss Parrott came over to Jane at once.

"Oh! The little darling! How I envy you, Mrs. Tavington! Such a picture!"

Jane allowed Miss Parrott to dither on. Most mothers, she believed, would swallow any flattery directed at their children, but Jane did not believe a word that issued from Miss Parrotts's mouth—most especially as the young lady was sneaking glances at the young colonel to gauge his reaction to her display of tender sentiment. Jane considered offering to let Miss Parrot hold William Francis, since he might just spit up his milk on her. She sighed, enjoying the thought, but knew that Moll was unlikely to permit it.

She gave her nursemaid a smile, and was rewarded only by a grave nod. Moll did not seem to approve of present company. With no social position to gain by currying favor, she was perfectly free to see them as shallow and deadly dull.

And not very persevering. Miss Parrott gave up her pose, and openly pursued St. Leger to the other side of the room, admiring the noble fire the butler had arranged. Letty was a welcome replacement, smiling at them all.

"I'm so glad we made that quilt," she declared to Lord Fanshawe. "You can see how industrious we were during that long voyage. All of us worked on it, including Mrs. Royston here." She stroked the baby's cheek with a slender finger. "And we couldn't have done it for a sweeter boy!"

William Francis gave her a responsive gurgle. He was in a happy, satisfied state that Jane hoped would last long enough for the Earl to arrive and see the boy at his best. Letty and Lord Fanshawe drifted away, as he critiqued the pictures adorning the drawing room walls for her further edification.

General Tazewell appeared, coming over to give the attractive infant a poke and an indulgent chuckle. He thought Tavington's wife a very pleasant lady, and here was proof she was a good mother as well. With an air of approval, he left to join his wife and tell her so.

Not long after, the Earl himself came bustling in, along with the rest of the other men. He arrowed in on the infant, and was soon ensconced on the sofa with William Francis on his lap, and his nephews on either side. Jane took a nearby chair, somewhat alarmed at the nobleman's energetic interaction with her tiny son. Moll stood behind her, on the watch, but satisfied that the old fellow would do the child no injury.

"Now that's a good lad! Yes, you are, my boy!" His great-uncle's massive wig and huge grin did not seem to alarm the baby. William Francis grinned back, and then saw his father nearby and wriggled happily.

"Ha!" laughed the earl. "A wise child who knows his own father! Handsome little rogue. Has the Mortimer eyes, wouldn't you say, John?"

"Well," Sir John conditioned, "I agree he's a fine healthy rascal, and he certainly has _eyes,_ but—"

Behind her, Jane could hear Lady Cecily muttering to Lady Trumfleet. "I had hoped to offer some suitable entertainment, but my brother—"

"Now, now, ma'am, as soon as Papa is finished making an ass of himself—"

Jane shut her ears to the unkind female voices, and let the men play with the baby until their interest flagged, and they began speaking of hunting again.

She gently interposed, "I would hate for William Francis to wear out his welcome. It really is time for him to be asleep. If I may—" She took the boy and handed him to Moll. "Thank you, Mrs. Royston."

Moll forbore to wink, and departed, looking relieved to escape the drawing room.

"My dear Lady Sattersby!" cried Lady Cecily, her voice rising above the hum of talk. "You promised me to join in tonight's musical entertainment, and I shall not permit you to refuse."

"Indeed, ma'am, I had not the slightest desire to refuse, but everyone seemed well enough entertained without my poor efforts."

"Nonsense!" Lord Colchester said gruffly. "Girl plays like an angel. Capital idea. Go on, Kitty, go on. The boys have never heard you." He told his nephews, in an audible whisper. "Nice girl, that. Best thing Sattersby ever did was bring her home!"

The party moved through to the music room, taking the seats provided. Jane admitted grudgingly to herself that Lady Sattersby did indeed play very well. With the tall gilt harp as an accessory, the fashionable young woman made a striking impression. Jane had learned enough in her few harp lessons to judge Lady Sattersby's technique as sound, if not brilliant. Wisely, she did not attempt anything she could not play with credit. One French air was followed by another, and the gentlemen, especially, were loud in their applause.

Letty, too, was more than impressed. She was in awe of Lady Sattersby's performance. Her taste, her execution, her whole appearance seemed perfect to her. And she knew just when to stop.

"No, no more!" Lady Sattersby laughed, finishing a sparkling _Rondeau._ "I shall use up all my credit with you and have nothing left to purchase your good will for the rest of the season!" She took her bows, with well-bred charm, and swept gracefully back to a chair by the old earl, who reached over to pat her hand affectionately.

Tavington was quite smitten. Lady Sattersby noticed his eyes following her and gave him an arch look. Tavington smiled back, ready to pursue this flirtation in earnest. Sattersby was sitting away from them, and seemed uninterested. _More fool he. _

"And now, Signor Bellini!" called Lady Cecily, not wishing to lose control of the gathering. "I must have your new pupil step forward. We have all been so delighted with Miss Rutledge's charming progress. Signor Bellini came tonight expressly to accompany her!"

Bellini looked somewhat taken aback, and glanced at Jane, obviously expecting that she would have played, but with years of practice in dealing with the aristocracy, he passed it off, and gave Letty his arm as they went to the end of the room. Letty took her place in the bend of the harpsichord, and folded her hands over her middle in the elegant pose that she had been taught.

_"Angels ever bright and fair, _

_Take, oh, take me to your care…" _

Her listeners sat up in surprise. Letty had indeed made great strides in less than two weeks. Her naturally lovely voice had strengthened, and she had learned more breath control. Dressed in that showy gown, she was an arresting sight.

The earl muttered to Tavington, "The girl sings as well as Sir Thomas Linley's daughters! Beautiful young lady, too. Your wife's sister, you told me."

"Yes," Tavington answered softly, not wanting to talk, but to listen. He had no idea that Letty had improved so much. And the gown Jane had complained of was certainly alluring. Mamma had outdone herself in presenting Letty to the circle of family and friends. Sattersby had forgotten to doze off. St. Leger was looking her over like a Christmas pudding. Old Lord Fanshawe seemed delighted, smiling beatifically in a kind of rapture. Even John caught his eye, and nodded in approval.

"An exquisite creature!" commented Lady Sattersby to Lady Cecily. "Your protégée, is she not, ma'am?"

"Indeed she is," his mother replied. "It is a shame that nothing had ever been done for her, poor child. She has been abominably neglected by her sister, and I daresay by the rest of her ignorant Colonial family."

"Then it is a blessing that she has come into your hands, ma'am," said Lady Trumfleet, expertly flattering her aunt. "Such talent ought to be nurtured by people of taste."

Tavington remembered Jane, and saw her sitting not five feet away, her face very red.

_Oh, God. Why does Mamma persist in baiting her? Jane will never forgive those words._

Letty was singing again, a lively air:

_"What can we poor females do, _

_When pressing, teasing lovers sue? _

_What can we, _

_what can we, _

_Poor, poor females do?" _

At the end, Letty whispered to Bellini. "I mustn't sing more than three songs. Lady Sattersby only played three times, and I don't want to look vain."

"Very well," he rumbled. "Sing your _Pastorale_ for them now, the new way we have worked on."

_"Flocks are sporting, _

_doves are courting, _

_Wandering linnets sweetly sing, _

_Ah!…" _

Instead of the simple sequence she had first learned, Bellini had taught her to add turns and ornaments, and at the very end of the cadenza, a long, perfect trill. There was a murmur of approval.

"_Joy and pleasure, _

_Without measure, _

_Kindly hail the glorious spring,.." _

And she soared up the scale an octave, finishing the song with a thrilling flourish. She was trembling so much she could hardly hear the fervent applause, but Bellini rose and led her forward to take a bow.

"Well done, my dear young lady: you make me proud of you!"

She shook her head shyly at the clamors for more, and Lady Cecily rose to take her hand and lead her back to her own little clique. After some further, general praise for the lady performers, Lady Cecily announced that the card tables had been set up, and invited them back into the drawing room for whist.

That was all. Jane was blushing with shame, feeling the very deliberate snub. She was ready to play. She was willing to play. It was her most creditable accomplishment, and Lady Cecily had just made it impossible. What could she do? She could hardly call out, "Wait! It's my turn!" No one seemed to notice but Bellini, who glanced over to her in embarrassment and concern, and gave an eloquent Italian shrug. But he had no time to talk to her. Lady Cecily had very definite ideas about who should partner whom at the tables. No sooner had the singing master approached Jane, than Lady Cecily called him away to partner Sir Joshua at the table where Letty and Lord Fanshawe were to play.

"No, Signor!" said Jane's mother-in-law. "Mrs. Tavington cannot play cards tonight. She may have to tend her child at a moment's notice!" Aside, she sneered to her niece, "Suckles the infant herself like a peasant, you see. I tried to enlighten her, but all my helpful overtures were rejected…"

Jane sat down heavily on a sofa, feeling very isolated. There were twenty-one people present, and thus there were five tables. She seemed to be odd-woman-out. Tavington had not noticed. His uncle had nearly dragged him to his own table near the fire, where Lord Colchester would partner his dear Caroline, and Tavington would partner his dear daughter-in-law, Lady Sattersby. The old man was very happy to be surrounded by his favorites. Tavington was enchanted to be playing with the lovely Kitty.

Wishing furiously that she had a book or a workbasket nearby, Jane sat with nothing to do but to listen to the others chatting over their games. Sir John, Penelope, and the Tazewells occupied the closest table.

Kind-hearted Mrs. Tazewell seemed to sense that there was something untoward about Jane's situation. She leaned over to give the neglected lady a share of conversation. "Your sister sings so charmingly. You are not musical then, Mrs. Tavington?"

_She means no harm, _Jane reminded herself, even thought the words stung like hot needles.

"Actually, Mrs. Tazewell—"

Bellini, at the next table over, and a practiced, professional eavesdropper, put in forcefully, "Mrs. Tavington plays most beautifully, Madame. It was a pity Lady Cecily was so anxious to begin cards."

"Oh! Well, then, someday perhaps—"

Sir John studied his hand with a grim expression, and unexpectedly said, "Why don't you play now, Mrs. Tavington? The place is as dull as tombs. Play for us, if you please."

Surprised that her brother-in-law would propose such a thing, Jane was only too happy to have a pastime. "If you wish, Sir John, I shall certainly oblige you."

"I do wish it."

Without another word, Jane took herself off to the vacated harpsichord, and sat down contentedly. She would play for an hour or so, and then she could slip away unnoticed to the nursery for a little time with Moll. Then she would bring down some of her other music...

A bright Scarlatti sonata was just the thing. Jane struck the first notes, and was nearly shouted at by Lady Cecily.

"What are you doing, Mrs. Tavington? We need quiet to attend to our game!"

Sir John Tavington interrupted his mother, nearly shouting himself. "It is _I_ who asked her to play, Madam. I hope that satisfies you!"

Jane's hands paused over the keys, shaking a little. It was but a minor earthquake. Lady Cecily subsided, with only a repulsive look in Jane's direction. A few people looked uneasy as the disturbance, but most had not noticed it. Out of the corner of her eye, Jane saw Letty in earnest, embarrassed conversation with a sympathetic Lord Fanshawe. At Lord Colchester's table, the most distant from her, everyone was intent on the conversation and the play, and the raised voices had been unheeded.

Feeling very grateful to her brother-in-law for his intervention. Jane resumed playing, and played with her whole heart.

-----

**Note:** My next posting will be late, as I will be away from a computer next week. I'll get it out as soon as possible. Thanks again to those who have taken time to review. I really have replied, but I doubt you have received my messages, since I have received no alerts and no author responses myself to any reviews I've given. And ffdotnet isn't telling us anything, of course.

"Very high" when referred to pheasants (and other flesh and fowl) meant that the birds were kept back until they were slightly rotten. The epicures thought pheasant the more delicious that way. I know, I know. I didn't set the fashion--I'm just reporting it.

For those purists who will point out that strawberries would be out of season by early October--Lady Cecily is extravagant. The strawberries could be 1) forced in a greenhouse 2) candied 3) dried and reconstituted.

_"Tabula rasa"--_blank slate

**Next—Chapter 34: Fox's Earth **


	34. Fox's Earth

Hello! I'm back from the Gulf Coast, and the chapter is finally up. Better late than never, I hope. At least while traveling I had the opportunity to see a very beautiful portrait by Joshua Reynolds that gave me ideas about some of my female characters (_Mrs. Richard Crofts, 1775_). You might want to check out my homepage, under "My Fanfiction," and then go to the teaser page for _Tavington's Heiress_. I have a picture of Jane, a sample dinner course, and a portrait of Letty in full fig. And now, here is

**Chapter 34: Fox's Earth **

The chaise jolted over a stretch of rough road. The women in the coach bumped against one another like ninepins on a green. Moll chuckled as Pullen's satin pincushion went flying, and then bounced twice.

"You're a hard-working girl, I give you that," she told the lady's maid, "but I reckon you should put it aside until we get wherever it is we're going."

Pullen scowled and retrieved her prized possession. "I'll never get this done in time." She settled back to her appliqué work with a determined air, working with impressive speed and precision.

"Don't worry so, Pullen," Jane said, cuddling the baby. "If the dress isn't done, it isn't done. The Earl and his family must accept us as we are."

"I hope so," Letty whispered to the window.

Jane wheedled a smile out of her sister, and handed William Francis back into Moll's strong arms. Letty might be uneasy about this journey to Colneford Castle, but Jane welcomed it as a blessed escape from her odious mother-in-law. Lord Colchester might not be mightily impressed by his nephew's choice of wife, but he was polite to Jane and quite doted on the baby.

On the night of the dinner party, Tavington had told her that his uncle had proposed a hunt on his estate. There would be a hunt ball the night before, and then the hunt proper, which Jane could see her husband was looking forward to like a boy at Christmas. Sir John had been persuaded to fall in with the scheme, and the two men were riding ahead of the coach even now.

The plan had required the delivery of their new coach, and Tavington's acquisition of a team of four and a competent coachman. Tavington had achieved all that within a few days, notified his uncle, and the game was afoot. Lord Colchester made a point of including his sister in the invitation. Considerable drama ensued. Lady Cecily told them she was feeling too ill for such a journey. It was too hot: it would be her death. She would catch a chill in the bad night air. She had affairs in town that could not be put off. In short, it was inconvenient, and she did not wish to come.

Her refusal, though it pleased Jane no end, unfortunately resulted in Caroline and Penelope being left behind. Their mother did not forbid them to go, but instead lamented in the bitterest words the cruelty of ungrateful children, who would abandon their mother to an empty and cheerless house. Her daughters were too tenderhearted to withstand this kind of manipulation. Lord Colchester was disappointed, but understood it all perfectly well. What he said in the privacy of his own study at Colchester House never reached Jane's ears, but she had no trouble imagining his reaction.

Lady Cecily had had plenty to say about the venture herself. She pointed out how it would interfere with Miss Rutledge's progress in music. She wondered aloud what kind of mother would subject an infant to an exhausting journey. Jane responded with forced calm, pointing out in her turn that if a voyage all the way from America had not injured William Francis, a few hours in a coach to Essex was unlikely to do him significant harm. She did not attempt to be conciliatory. If Lady Cecily had any genuine concern for her grandson, she could have shown it by actually taking a look at him once or twice. She was so curt, in fact, that William had looked up in surprise from his place at the dinner table. Jane did not feel like being conciliatory toward him, either. She had seen little enough of him since the night of the dinner party.

She had cares enough of her own. She had gone with Letty to the dressmaker Lucy Protheroe had told her of—the one who did good work far more cheaply than the supercilious Madame Margot. Two new day dresses were ordered and delivered at the last moment to be packed for the visit to the castle. They would hardly be enough. Squeezing what she could out of the last of her clothing money, Jane had bought a bale of creamy raw silk and an assortment of ribbons, braids, and lace. Pullen was tasked with making simple, elegant gowns: one to be trimmed in pink for Jane, and the other with Letty's favorite French blue. In the days before departing, she had completed Jane's dress, and was now putting the final touches on Letty's. It would be ready in a day or two, just as it was needed. White was not the best color for either of them, but it was fashionable and the silk had been a bargain. Quite a bit of the silk was left over, and would be useful for all sorts of projects.

It was a pleasant thought, and she stretched contentedly, happy to be spending a few days in the country. Glancing over, she noticed that Letty was still pensively gazing out the window.

Letty was plainly not as enthusiastic about their trip as Jane. While she had submitted to the change in plans without complaint, she had sighed when Lady Cecily had talked about the suspension of her music lessons. Letty was so happy in London that any change seemed disappointing. She sighed again, and murmured, "Lord Fanshawe planned to invite us all to dine with him. He wants me to see his art treasures."

"How nice," Jane managed lamely, quite taken aback. Letty as a connoisseur of art seemed so unlikely a development that she felt the brief suspicion of an intrigue. No. It could not be. Lord Fanshawe was an old man. He simply wanted to share his collection with his guests. "No doubt he will invite us on our return. It sounds very—educational."

"Yes. He thinks I should know about painting and sculpture and such. It all sounds so pretty, to hear him tell it. And there are exhibitions all the time of the good painters."

"The Colonel will be sitting for Sir Joshua Reynolds then, too. Perhaps we can visit while he works."

"Oh, yes!" Letty responded, eyes shining. "Lord Fanshawe says that he always keeps some of his best work on display there."

Moll listened to the exchange, somewhat bemused. Letty's interest in pictures seemed odd to her, too. Of course, Letty had always liked pretty things—couldn't get enough them, in fact. Pretty clothes, jewelry, flowers—and now she had found all sorts of new gewgaws to admire. Everybody had their own way of being happy; and sometimes being happy was just a matter of making up your mind to _be_ happy. If painted pictures made Letty cheerful, Moll would not despise her for it.

Mrs. Tavington's pleasure in getting out to the country made more sense to her. A lot of that, surely, was getting away from her high-and-mightyness, Lady Cecily Tavington. Moll was feeling happy herself, but only part of that was getting away from the smoke and noise of the town. After all, she might not be so pleased herself, if Tom had not been borrowed from the old lady's household to act as footman on this little jaunt. He was traveling at his post on the back of the coach at this very moment, ready to jump down and look after them at a moment's notice. It was a comforting thing, to have an able-bodied man with them in addition to Bob Scoggins, the new coachman. Not that Scoggins didn't seem a decent man. But he was not as handsome as Tom. Not the least little bit.

Down in the servants' hall, Moll had been warned that there might be trouble on the way. There were no rebels and no rogue militiamen plundering the countryside, but there were plenty of bandits and robbers—"highwaymen"—they called them, always looking for easy prey on the busy London roads. After due consideration, she had insisted on taking her musket. Mrs. Tavington had agreed that was a sound plan, and had herself packed her little pistol in its fancy box under her seat. It was always better to be safe than sorry.

But as she scanned the passing green countryside, Moll thought they had little to worry about today. The Colonel and his brother were up ahead on horseback. Sir John's fast curricle was being driven by his valet, with the Colonel's valet riding with him. They had Scoggins driving the chaise, and Tom keeping on eye on the road to either side. Most of these highwaymen worked alone or in pairs. A good-sized party like theirs, led by gentlemen, should be safe enough.

Little Will was asleep again, blue-veined eyelids shut. Moll tenderly set him down into his travelling basket. The coach hit another bump, and Moll jostled Pullen, who lost her pincushion again. The pale-faced maid reached for it, looking put upon, but saying nothing. Moll hoped she would have a chance to talk to her during their stay in the country. She was not quite sure what to make of Margaret Pullen. Tom told her that the girl had been in a place called the Magdalen, where harlots went when they wanted to be reformed. She looked nothing like any harlot Moll had ever met, and Moll had met quite a few in her army days. Tom said the place was not a prison, because the girls had to _want_ to be there. Maybe she had been betrayed by a false lover. That happened often enough, and Moll was not one to cast the first stone. It was a puzzle though, and Moll liked to solve puzzles.

Into the silence, Moll asked, "Whereabouts is this Wargrave that the Colonel talks about?"

Jane shook her head. "I wish I had a map. It must be nearby. The Colonel told me it is ten miles south of Colneford Castle, so I suppose we will be passing by soon. I don't know which road leads to it though. I wish the Colonel would show us."

"Maybe we'll go there," Letty said, rousing from her reverie. "I heard the Colonel and Sir John talking about it."

"More likely it will be just the Colonel and his brother," Jane answered. "That's probably why they brought the curricle. The two of them will drive at incredible speed, terrifying all the livestock in the county."

"A right neat little carriage," Moll agreed, wishing she could drive it herself, imagining the wind rushing past…

-----

_Kitty._ Tavington found it hard to think of anything else, astride his splendid new hunter, on the way to Colneford Castle. _Kitty, Kitty,_ was the rhythm his horse's hooves beat out on the hard and dusty road. A rising tide of excitement quickened his heartbeat. He had not seen her in a week, but would be with her in less than hour.

The hunt, his uncle, the visit to Wargrave: all very nice in their way. Nothing, however, could compare with his ardent wish to see Kitty, Lady Sattersby again. Simply being in her presence brought a glow of happiness, and he could tell it was the same for her.

Lovely Kitty, married to that pitiful weed Sattersby, The fool plainly felt nothing for her, and could not begin to appreciate her. It was not only her beauty—though she was divinely beautiful. Tavington was lost momentarily in consideration of her skin, radiant as mother-of-pearl, her delicate, noble features, her bewitching, dimpled smile, and above all, her beautiful grey eyes, alight with wit and intelligence and deep feeling.

Yes, there was far more to her than her lovely looks. Kitty was a keen observer of human nature, and had plenty to say about the follies of the fashionable circles she inhabited. She was well-read, and a visit to Colchester House had always featured a digression into books. She knew everybody: she had ties to that group of clever women called the Blue Stockings; she knew Doctor Johnson, who had stayed as a guest of her father for months at a time; she was related to most of the aristocracy of England, Scotland, and Ireland.

She was entertaining: elegantly and generously so. A cup of tea with Kitty could never be dull. If conversation flagged—which it never did—Kitty could find some new and interesting topic. Or she would go over to her golden harp, playing like—as his uncle said—an angel. Sattersby simply did not know how lucky he was.

Kitty would be hunting with them, too. Her delight in the prospect of a hunt was equal to Tavington's own. Uncle Colchester vouched for her horsemanship. It would be a long and exciting day in the saddle, and he had promised his uncle particularly to look out for her. A splendid rider she might be, but she was still a lady, and in need of protection. Tavington smiled, feeling very honored at being entrusted with someone so precious. Unconsciously, he spurred his horse on, impatient to be there.

That next rise was familiar. Tavington looked over at his brother, the smile still on his lips. John grinned back and reined in his horse a little. Another bend in the road beyond those elms would reveal the way to the castle. John glanced back and called to his brother. "Not too fast, Will! We don't want to lose the rest of our party. They're falling behind."

Tavington shrugged. "Pratt knows the way." Grudgingly, he slowed his horse to ride beside John. It would be rude to go off and leave the women and servants behind. He must not be so obvious about his feelings for Kitty. Sattersby might ignore her, but he would not ignore any slight to his honor. It would be selfish and wrong to cause her embarrassment. Tavington was rather dazed by the intensity of his feelings. He had never been so taken with a woman. He felt consumed, confused, and exhilarated. The touch of Kitty's fingers on his as she handed him a teacup thrilled him in a new, unexpected way.

_Am I in love? I must be. And with Kitty! A thousand pities we did not meet even a year ago! Everything would have been different._

The shadows among the elms were cool and pleasant. The two men made certain that both carriages had made the correct turn and then stopped, allowing them to catch them up completely. Tavington saw that his brother was looking at him, brows raised, expecting him to do something.

_Oh._

Turning his mount's head, he rode back to the waiting chaise. "This is the turn-off to Colneford Castle, ladies," he explained. All the women sat up and looked about with great interest. "From now on, it is my uncle's property on both sides of the road. In another half-mile the castle will be visible. There is an excellent prospect through the trees to the right over a small lake. I believe you will find it quite attractive."

Without waiting for a reply, he trotted back to join his brother, and the two of them led the procession along tree-lined lanes to the stone bulk of the ancient castle.

Not one of the women in the coach was silent at the sight. A squeal, a gasp, an exclamation, an inarticulate "My stars!"

Then: "A castle! A real castle!"

"Oh, look at the tops of the towers!"

"Looks right gloomy!"

Jane snorted, secretly agreeing with Moll. It was vast and grey and very, very stony. Hardly her idea of a home. And yet, as they drove under a stone archway engraved with the Mortimer coat of arms, there was the Earl and his family, coming out to greet them, all smiles and kind words. And not just the family—

"Oh! Mr. Bellini! How delightful!"

Their Italian friend swooped down on them, rumbling a laugh at their happy surprise.

"It is all the Lady Cecily's doing, though she would be angry to acknowledge it. She complained so much about you, Miss Rutledge, missing your lessons, that the good Lord Colchester invited me to come and spend the time with you. While the others ride after foxes, we can continue with our music!"

Letty was delighted. "Oh, how kind, how very kind of the Earl!"

"And how kind of you, Signor," Jane added, "to join us. It is such an imposition!"

"Not at all, dear young ladies," they were assured. "A visit to a country estate—living at the expense of the Lord Colchester the entire time—the company of charming ladies. How can I complain?" More seriously, he murmured, "I will certainly earn my keep, of course. I am expected to provide some entertainment at the ball and after dinner on other nights. But you ladies will help me, I know!"

"Oh, of course!" Jane cried. "We shall be only too happy!"

Letty agreed. "What fun we shall have!"

-----

Two days later, Jane was still blessing Bellini's arrival. The visit would have been rather unsatisfactory without him, she decided. Oh, she and Letty had gone for some pleasant walks, and they did enjoy seeing a genuine castle (though they were disappointed to discover that the old dungeons had been transformed into an extensive wine cellar). William, however, had spent nearly the entire time so far on horseback, riding about the estate with his brother, his uncle, and the rest of his relations.

The carriage trip had caused a recurrence of Jane's old nightmares about the day of Biddy's death. When she awakened from them, she found herself confused and shivering in a strange room. The castle, taken as a whole, was more picturesque than comfortable. Stone walls might not a prison make, but they did make for a chilly and unwelcoming bedchamber.

And a lonely one. William was lodged at some distance, and had not visited her since they arrived. Jane bit her lip with vexation, trying not to give in to jealousy.

He was so blatantly enamored of Lady Sattersby. And she was so blatantly enamored of William. They were always seated near one another at meals, and would gaze silently into each other's eyes, with faint and (in Jane's opinion) rather silly smiles on their lips. Everyone else seemed oblivious.

Not everyone. Letty had noticed, and at first had stared, shocked and blushing, at such a display. Afterwards, she had avoided Jane, obviously not knowing what to say. Jane tracked her down to her bedchamber and had talked it out with her.

"He behaves—like he is in love with Lady Sattersby!" Letty blurted out, red with shame. "It is so wrong! How can he insult you like that?"

Jane hardly knew, herself. It hurt quite horribly, but Jane had learned not to let people know how much they hurt her, because often it seemed to be an invitation to hurt her even more. She was very angry with William, but gave a little false laugh, and told Letty, "I don't think he's aware of how obvious he is. He's not hurting me deliberately. It is just a ridiculous infatuation. I hope Lord Sattersby does not take offense. There could be trouble."

"And Lady Sattersby! It's so immodest! Don't aristocrats care about such things? You never saw people act like that at home!"

It was a fair enough observation. Jane considered it. It was true. She had never witnessed openly adulterous behavior at a dining table in South Carolina. _But perhaps,_ she reflected sourly, _that was because the planters were using their slaves as concubines, and so could appear blameless in polite society._

At any rate, it was all very strange to her, and very painful. Perhaps she was supposed to ignore such breaches of honor and fidelity—or find a lover of her own. The thought was repellent. All she knew was that it was impossible to like Lady Sattersby, though the young woman was always very civil to her. Somehow the civility was even more galling—it seemed that Lady Sattersby saw nothing wrong with her behavior, and could not imagine anyone else thinking it wrong, either.

-----

Preparing for the ball that Wednesday gave them all welcome occupation. _A ball is a ball is a ball, after all,_ Jane decided. The Earl wanted to present his heroic nephew to his friends. Jane would certainly dance and Letty would certainly dance at least as often. Mr. Bellini would sing, Letty would sing, and then they would sing a duet. Jane was asked to accompany them and had practiced with great pleasure. She felt a little nervous at performing for such a crowd, but it was more a pleasant excitement than real fear. Pullen outdid herself preparing them. Jane felt she looked as well as she ever had. It was remarkable what a skilled hand could do with cosmetics.

Dinner was served a little earlier than usual, and there were additions to the table: friends of the Earl who would be staying overnight. Then they all gathered in the great hall, where the dancing would be held, waiting for the rest of the guests. Jane saw her husband, talking softly with Lady Sattersby. They had sat together again at dinner, and were as inseparable as ever. Jane glared at them, willing her husband to look in her direction. He saw her looking and smiled briefly at her. Jane did not smile back. He seemed somewhat surprised and continued his conversation with his fair companion.

The ball commenced. Jane found herself singled out by Lord Colchester to open the dancing, with her husband following them with Lady Sattersby. It took all of Jane's manners to smile and take the Earl's arm, for she felt he could have let her know his plans, or at least make a show of asking her to dance. Apparently it had all been settled by the earl, his daughter-in-law, and Tavington himself. Letty was being partnered by Lord Sattersby, and the rest of the dancers were soon in motion.

Some conversation was necessary. "A splendid ball, my lord. I am sure my husband is very obliged to you for with your generous hospitality."

Lord Colchester beamed approvingly. "Only too happy to do something for the boy. Always been fond of him."

"He has often spoken of your kindness to him."

It was enough. Jane concentrated on dancing her best and keeping a smile fixed on her face. Dancing with the Earl of Colchester was rather like dancing with a good-humored bear. Her smile did not budge even when the first four dancers clasped hands across, and Jane saw her husband completely enraptured by his partner. As they moved through the figures, Jane could not manage to find a word to say to William, afraid that if she let herself say anything, she would begin shouting.

The earl was speaking again. "Looking forward to your entertainment tonight. Bellini says you'll play for him. Very nice of you. Glad you have something to entertain you. Too bad you don't ride."

"Actually, my lord," Jane replied sweetly, "I _do_ ride. It has been some time, of course." A very long time, really. Papa had never so much as given her a pony. She had ridden with Ralph, though, nearly every day in the spring before he left for England, when she spent two months with his family. Her host did not need to know that, of course.

"Really!" The earl was taken aback and nearly missed a step. "I had no idea, Mrs. Tavington! We must get you mounted!"

"No, no! I would not dream of putting you to the trouble. Besides, my sister does _not_ ride, and it would be selfish to desert her for an entire day. Another time, perhaps." She smiled again, a smile of angelic resignation. _Let him think me neglected. I am, if not because of that. _Letty was a good excuse, too. Jane did not flatter herself that her rusty horsemanship was up to a day's hunt over rough, unfamiliar ground. A few miles amble on a docile beast was about as much as her current skills would permit. But the earl did not need to know that, either. When William had so happily bought himself a hunter, Jane had not demanded a horse for herself, thinking it an unnecessary expenditure. She had not even said anything about liking to ride, not wanting to make William feel badly for indulging himself. Now, however, she decided that she been wrong not to assert herself more.

And so the ball went on and on. Jane was shown every proper attention, and danced with Lord Sattersby, who had little to say for himself, and then with Lord Trumfleet, who had rather too much. It was all about gambling and horses and people completely unknown to her, so Jane fell back on her usual conversational aids of "Really?" "Good Heavens!" and the ever-popular "Oh, do tell me more!"

It was time to see to William Francis. Jane had scheduled and arranged her evening carefully around his needs. If she nursed him now, she would have plenty of time to be back for the music, which was going to be the high point of her evening. She turned back to take another look at Letty, who appeared to be enjoying herself as well. She was much in demand as a partner, and Jane suspected that after supper and the musical entertainment, she would be even more so.

Jane was not entirely correct. Oh, Letty found the ball pleasant enough, but was really looking forward to singing. Mr. Bellini had taught her a beautiful duet and she loved to sing with him. In fact, singing with Mr. Bellini while her sister played was definitely among the most wonderful experiences she had known. It was such fun to make music with other people. She liked playing the spinet and the harp, but singing with another person, or even singing while someone played was better. She was dressed in the wonderful gown Lady Cecily had conceived, and she knew every eye would be upon her. Somehow, when she was singing, the prospect was far from dreadful.

-----

"What a lovely girl," Kitty, Lady Sattersby observed to Tavington, sitting beside him at the supper table.

He gave her a knowing look. "Lovely, indeed."

She laughed, and batted at him playfully with her fan. "Your _sister,_ Miss Rutledge. I find her delightful, and am so looking forward to tonight's entertainment."

"I daresay," he answered carelessly. "Mrs. Tavington and her sister spend a great deal of time together at their music. They are very fond of one another, and quite good at keeping themselves amused."

Kitty frowned slightly at this remark, which was not consistent with what Lady Cecily had said about relations between the two ladies. Yet there they were, further down the table, sitting together and chatting in a very affectionate way. Her dear father-in-law had warned her that his sister's pronouncements were not to be trusted. She dismissed the contradiction from her mind with Tavington's next words.

"I very much regret that _you_ are not to play tonight."

She laughed again. "One must not demand more than one's fair share of attention," she pointed out. "I hope never to see people rolling their eyes as I sit down to my instrument!" She shrugged. "Besides, my lord father-in-law has engaged Signor Bellini for the duration, and it is best to let a professional arrange things as he thinks best."

"All the better to enjoy your conversation," Tavington teased.

She tapped him again, thinking that he was quite the handsomest and most exciting man she had ever met. "And we have the hunt tomorrow," she reminded him, her own pleasure and excitement evident. "After our last dance I intend to retire and get at least a few hours sleep before embarking on our adventure. It must seem very tame to you after your wartime experiences."

"Not at all," he assured her. "A vigorous hunt is one of the best ways to keep a cavalryman in training. Even in America we resorted to the exercise whenever possible. It is equally good for men and horses."

"And for ladies, too!" she declared. "I love nothing so well as a good, hard ride." Realizing what she had said, she flushed deeply, and looked at her plate.

Tavington fought back the sudden surge of desire, looking at the beautiful young woman beside him, watching the pulsing of a blue vein in the graceful neck. He longed to stroke the velvety skin of her cheek, wanting to feel the warmth, the heat of her blood answering his. His own blood roared in his ears, distancing him from everyone else in the room. After a long moment, she looked back at him: a look of such unhappiness and longing that his heart nearly broke for her. Kitty was unhappy, very unhappy in her marriage. He knew it would be so, for who could possibly love Sattersby? No doubt it had seemed a good match at the time, and now the poor girl was trapped. His hand touched hers, hidden by the table.

He said, "My uncle had charged me with your protection tomorrow. I told him that I held it an honor."

She whispered, "I put myself entirely in your hands."

They were being summoned to the drawing room for the musical entertainment. Tavington offered Kitty his arm, and they followed the talking, laughing throng, feeling themselves to be blissfully alone together in spirit. They found seats together at the back of the room, just touching. Neither heard much of the music. It was simply part of the outside world that meant nothing to them. In a distant way, they heard Jane play, brightly, quickly: a stream of notes that concealed how hard their hearts were beating. Letty sang, and sang well, and Bellini delighted his audience with his glorious bass voice.

_"Arise, arise, ye subterranean winds…"_

Kitty shivered slightly. Tavington wished he could pull her close to warm her. He wished he could stand beside her, the way that Letty and Bellini were standing together, singing as one. Automatically, Tavington and Kitty applauded. Automatically, they smiled in agreement with the admiring remarks of the people nearest them. It all seemed very far away. It was torture to sit side by side, unable to express what they felt. At last, the music and the exclamations were over, and the guests were ushered back into the great hall for the resumption of the dancing.

"I am engaged for the next four," Kitty told him regretfully.

"I, too," he replied. "But soon--" He smiled, and she smiled, and then her latest partner came to claim her. Tavington imagined calling the impudent fellow out. His blood was up: he felt ready for anything. He did not feel like dancing, but like fighting. With a great effort, he pulled himself together and went to skulk along the wall, forgetting that he had promised to dance this one with his wife.

Jane saw him, across the room, his face sullen. She had been smiling, listening to any number of kind compliments to her music. Her smile faded, and then she conscientiously pasted it back on her face. So her husband was out of humor. She had no idea why. He had seemed happy enough, sitting and supping with Lady Sattersby, fawning over her in quite a disgusting way. Oh, so the lady was dancing with another. _What a pity._ With her pleasure turning to ashes, Jane forced another smile, and decided it would profit neither of them for her to seek him out and demand her dance. She decided to have another look at William Francis and then take herself to her bed. It was clear she would not be missed.

-----

-----

Just after dawn, the castle courtyard was all noise and confusion. The hunters were either already on horseback or in the act of mounting. Dogs were baying, wild with excitement, straining at their leashes. The chatter of the guest who were up early to see the hunt off rose up like up like birds on the wing. Servants threaded their away among people, horses, and dogs carrying heavy trays of sherry glasses, as the riders toasted "Today's fox!"

Jane and Letty stood by the door together, smiling and demure in their new white dresses, the very picture of well-bred ladies. Bellini, knowing what was due the Earl as his host and employer, had braved an agonizing hangover and stood with his good friends, Mrs. Tavington and Miss Rutledge. As soon as the riders departed, he planned to return to his bed and sleep through the day.

Tavington was among his family, and gladly admired Bluebell, Kitty's lovely mare. He was in high spirits, which were only slightly dashed when he saw Jane talking with that Italian fellow, and suddenly remembered that he had forgotten to dance with her last night. A small matter. Jane had undoubtedly danced with someone else. He was sure she had had a very good time. Why should she not? Letty shot him a dark, rather hostile look that startled him. Was she angry with him?

But Kitty was smiling at him, looking marvelous in her riding habit. Forgetting everything else, he eased his mount beside hers. They joined the procession, riding out of the courtyard, under the great archway, and then down the lane to follow the hounds.

It did not take long for the pack to catch a scent. Deep, powerful, musical, the baying rose, and the horns were sounded. Without hesitation, the hunt spurred into pursuit. Tavington forgot any cares in the pleasure of feeling a high-fed hunter between his legs. A splendid find: worth every penny—and the beast had cost quite a few. A smooth action—the beast took the jumps like a deer. _There's nothing like a hunt,_ Tavington thought, reveling in the moment. _Nothing compares to it except the charge._ Suddenly he was powerfully reminded of South Carolina, and the charge at Camden: that brightest moment of his career in America. _Thundering down on the enemy, sword in hand._

Well, there was no sword in his hand now: nothing but his riding crop. A pang pulled at his heart, as he thought of Bordon and Wilkins and all his officers and men--dead or wounded, or on garrison duty in Charlestown, or chasing will o' the wisps with Cornwallis. Would he ever feel the same about the Third? How could he? They would never be tested together in the same way, never be sent together through the refiner's fire of battle, never feel themselves keenly alive, and truly men of war.

Those days were over, though, and there were consolations. Kitty galloped beside him, her beautiful face flushed and keen. _Prettier than Bordon, certainly,_ he thought, smiling to himself. _A good horse, too._ They spread out, the ground quaking under scores of hooves, and they whipped past a little coppice, and then down through the brook, the water splashing up onto their boots. Tavington gave himself up to sensation. Why worry about Bordon? With any luck, he would see the man himself in three months. Perhaps he would witness his friend ordained by the Bishop of London. _I'll have a part of the Green Dragoons nearby forever._ He smiled again, and spurred past Trumfleet, keeping abreast of Kitty. He must not lose his head. Kitty was his responsibility today. _Comrades in arms, of a sort. _

The Earl, as Master of the Hunt, was well ahead, with John and Sattersby. Cousin Anne was riding with some other ladies, who appeared to be able to gossip while galloping after a fox. Anne would probably not stay to the end—she rarely did. After an hour or two, she and her friends would return to the house for refreshments, and swagger about in their habits, pretending to be sporting women. Kitty looked to have more spirit, though.

They changed direction, going up north into some rolling hills. Their fox must be a crafty one: perhaps a vixen. They could present a long and satisfying challenge. They went on, and on, and time passed, and the horses slowed. Tavington rode up to hear some other riders wondering if the hounds had lost the scent.

"Oh, I hope not!" cried Kitty, who had overheard. "We have just had a good start!"

"Are you thirsty?" he asked, producing a silver flask. "Don't worry: it's not spirits—just some cold tea. I always have some boiled up for me when I go for a long ride: it's safe to drink and keeps me alert."

Daringly, she took the flask and drank straight from it. "It's sweet."

"The sugar seems to help," he smiled. "I don't know why."

"Perhaps you simply like sweet things."

"Perhaps." He accepted the flask back and took a long swallow.

The dogs set up a baying and the riders began to move again. Kitty remained at his left: keeping her position as if she were a trained dragoon. It was a rare pleasure to ride beside a woman like this. They backtracked to the Home Farm, and then scrambled up Gamecock Hill, and then chased through the Lower Fields, taking the hedges, and low stone walls, one, two, three…

There was a shout. Someone's horse had refused the jump, and the rider was down. Tavington glanced back and saw that some riders had stopped to look after the fellow. He could not make out the man, but Kitty knew him.

"That is Mr. Quillingham, a very great landowner. You were introduced to him last night!" She laughed at him. "Don't you remember?"

"I remember nothing but you!"

"Flatterer!"

There was a stir up ahead. Kitty switched her mare lightly, trying to get past Tavington. In a little grove, the dogs had run the fox to earth and were worrying it among them. There was snarling and eager barking among the dogs, and excited chatter among the riders. One of them jumped down to retrieve the mangled remains, and called his young son, a boy of ten to join him.

"That's Sir Charles Iggulden and his eldest son." Kitty told him. "It's the boy's first real hunt."

Tavington smiled, understanding her. They watched, rather nostalgically, while the father smeared the fox's blood on the child's face. The rosy young boy was beaming with pride and then wrinkling his nose at the blood and then beaming with pride again, and altogether Tavington and Kitty found it an amusing and touching sight. Being 'blooded' was a cherished rite of passage. Tavington would never forget his own first hunt, and their prize, a dry bitch of some seventeen pounds, and how Mamma had said later with all that blood on his face he looked like a Red Indian.

"In a few years," Kitty said softly, "that will be you and your son."

Tavington was touched by the kind thought, and pressed his hand over hers.

As the hunters talked about saving the fox's brush, the dogs picked up a new scent. In no time at all, they were moving back out into the fields, their ranks a little thinner. A few of the riders were already tired, or thinking about a second breakfast, or they were concerned for their horses. Tavington and Kitty crossed the paths of some of these, and gave them smugly ironic salutes. They crossed over the brook again, and rode up to the east, toward an oak hanger before the Earl threw up a hand, and the dogs were called back.

"What's wrong?" Tavington called out.

"Can't go there!" his uncle bellowed back. "It's that brute Craven's property, and the villain has put down mantraps all through the woods to catch poachers. We daren't ride through. We'll send the dogs back over toward Colneford."

Kitty leaned over to tell Tavington the full story. "My lord father-in-law can't bear his new neighbor. He always got on well with old Mr. Craven, but the son inherited a few years ago, and he keeps game instead of hunting. Those mantraps are huge. I heard they found a man dead in one not long ago—his leg was nearly taken off by the trap, and he bled to death before anyone found him. It's shocking I suppose, but it has certainly kept Mr. Craven's pheasants safe for his own shooting. He was invited to the ball all the same, though." She smiled at him again, teasingly. "I don't suppose you remember him either?"

"No," Tavington confessed, unembarrassed.

The change of direction slowed their pace for some time. The dogs barked longingly at Craven's oak hanger, but were dragged away, and snuffled along to little purpose, straying after a rabbit now and then.

Time stretched out, and Tavington and Kitty rode side by side, talking about all sorts of things.

"My uncle is very fond of you," Tavington told her. "He told me bringing you home was the best thing Sattersby has ever done."

"I'm glad his lordship likes me. I can't tell you how I depend upon his friendship." Very dejectedly, she confided, "Bill doesn't care a bit for me. He only married me for my fortune and the estate. He likes Haldon Priory, at least. But he's so cold, so careless. When we are alone together, I feel invisible."

"He's a fool," Tavington said angrily. He had always hated it that he and Sattersby shared a name—both had been christened after Lord Colchester. _Bill and Will. It was thought so amusing when we were children._ "A damned fool. No surprise, of course. I've known him all our lives, and he's always been a thorn in my side. He goes about with that hang-dog face, when he's one of the luckiest men in the world."

"How strange," she mused. "He is so jealous of you. He thinks you're one of Fortune's Favorites."

"What! I!"

"Oh, yes! He often speaks of you with such resentment. You are handsome, brave, famous! And he can never forget his schooldays, when you were the champion athlete at Eton. Simply seeing you reminds him of how insignificant he was on the playing field."

That was certainly true. Sattersby had been of no use at all to their side. Tavington shrugged. "It is foolish to brood over schooldays. _I_ always envied Sattersby for his kind father and his wealth."

"I certainly thought he was a good catch, when I was trying so desperately to get out of my father's house. He—my father, Lord Crewell, that is--took a young wife a few years ago, and it became rather horrid at home."

_Curious._ Tavington gave a wry chuckle. "You situation sounds much like my wife's when first we met."

"Really? How surprising. Well, that's one thing about her life that is imperfect. Otherwise, I am shamefully jealous of her."

He smirked. She laughed and shook her head. "And not just because she is married to you, you vain man. She always seems so composed, so in control. She is obviously very clever, and I sometimes feel that she thinks me silly. And I envy her her affectionate sister. Miss Rutledge is lovely and sweet, and she and Mrs. Tavington seem such good friends. How I longed for a sister. I have brothers, but the elder is much older than I, and Arthur is still in school. We were never much to one another… But Mrs. Tavington! I can tell that your own sisters like her as well, and they are all completely congenial and friendly. Bill was greatly impressed by the story of how she came to your rescue." She paused. "And of course she has that beautiful little boy. Her life seems so perfect to me."

Tavington reflected on this, and pointed out that nothing is perfect. "You have done better to have my uncle as a father-in-law, than Jane to have Mamma as a mother-in-law. Mamma is quite rude to her."

"Oh, yes! Dear Lord Colchester! I sometimes think, that even though he so much older, I might have been wiser to—but that is no matter. Your wife seems to deal so well with Lady Cecily's--unreasonableness."

"I assure you that the things Mamma says to her hurt her deeply."

"Well, she is braver than I, or her composure is more practiced. I admire her the more for it."

His uncle's favorite hound, Diamond, gave a deep 'woof!" and darted to the left, with the rest of the pack after him. The riders spurred their horses, glad to see some action again.

The scent of fox was strong: so strong that Tavington thought he hardly needed a dog to follow it. A fox must have its earth nearby. Rocky and pitted, the ground was rough here, and there was a stone wall behind a hedge looming ahead of them. Tavington knew it well, and hoped that Kitty did, too. He felt his horse gather itself, and then was up and over, landing with barely a jar. Beyond was Greengage Cottage, neat and white, its roof primly thatched. It lay near a little grove of beeches, and then there was another hedge.

With a ditch. Kitty's mount managed the hedge well enough, but was unprepared for the sudden drop-off. The mare stumbled, crow-hopped, and stopped suddenly, throwing her rider clean over her head.

"Kitty!"

Tavington pulled his hunter around and leaped from the saddle. Kitty lay motionless on the ground. Her mare stumbled again and went down. For a horrible moment, Tavington feared the horse would roll on the dismounted girl, but he caught at the reins, and avoided the flailing hooves, and soon had the horse up and tied securely to a bush. His own well-mannered mount stood quietly nearby, primly cropping some grass. Certain that the horses would not be trampling anyone, he dashed to Kitty's side, and knelt, fearing the worst.

"Kitty?" He ran gentle, questing hands over her, checking her for injuries. She was not bleeding, thank God. Her eyes blinked open, and she smiled tremulously.

"Oh, dear! I took a tumble after all, just when I thought I was making such a good impression on you. Is Bluebell all right?"

Tavington glanced at the mare, which had assumed the maddeningly innocent air of all horses that have nearly killed their riders. "She seems so—her legs are sound, at least. I am more concerned for you. You must permit me to ascertain if _you_ are all right."

She waved a trembling hand in front of her face. "How stupid you must think me."

Moved to pity by her confusion, Tavington smiled and said, "Think nothing of it. I once took a rather spectacular fall myself. Are you able to move your arms and legs?"

Reassuring wriggling settled the issue. "I'm all right—I think," Kitty told him. "I just feel rather shaken."

"I am concerned that your back may have been injured."

She shook her head, rather carefully. "No. I am only bruised. What are you doing?"

Without another word, Tavington took her up in his arms and carried her into the cool shade of the trees. "You will feel better in the shade," he assured her. Looking at him in delighted wonder, she put her arms about his neck, and kept them there, even after he laid her down in the soft, fresh grass. It was a lonely place, this little mossy hollow, and he felt sheltered from the eyes of the world. A secret place: a mating place. Little shadows swayed about them, softening the light, playing over Kitty's face like a delicate veil.

"Tavington," she whispered, her breath quick and shallow. "I wish—"

He smoothed her rumpled hair back from her brow, "—and so do I. My dear Kitty—" He leaned in, and kissed her softly, relishing her whimper of shock and pleasure. He kissed her again, and a pent-up flood of dark hunger overwhelmed him. They clung together, devouring each other, ravaging each other. Tavington broke the kiss reluctantly, and the two of them looked at each other for a moment, wondering what might happen next. place.

Her eyes seemed the loveliest in the world to him, sparkles dancing over deep water. He kissed her again, very deliberately. "My dearest, loveliest Kitty, I must tell you—I have never felt anything like this—I want—I hardly know how to speak of this. I want you to be mine, but only if this is what_ you_ want--"

There was a breathless pause, and then Kitty cried fiercely, "Yes! Oh, yes! Now!"

-----

The elderly tenant of Greengage Cottage was relieved when the hunt passed by. Horns sounded in the distance, and the man stepped outside, hoping that a few of his cabbages had survived. The neat greensward was marred with clods of dirt thrown up by the horses' hooves. He sighed at the remains of his turnip bed. The Earl was a right proper master, and would make good the worst of the damage. Some years, riders knocked on his door to ask for a cup of tea or directions to the house. Now and then, someone was injured and needed a place to shelter until help arrived. No one had bothered him so far.

A nicker of horses from the beech grove made him look round. A lady's mount was tied to a hedge, but a big stallion browsed through the garden, bold as you please. The tenant's first thought was that someone was hurt, and he started forward to see what he could do.

Then he held a man's voice, and then a woman's, murmuring low in tones no one could mistake. He took another step, and peered through the trees.

Surprised, he stepped back. The gentleman did not seem to be needing any help, and the lady was not screaming for rescue. The tenant stopped, watching in admiration and curiosity, for they were a fine-looking couple, to be sure. Thinking more clearly, the man hurried away in embarrassment. No good could come of interrupting the quality at their sports. He wondered what his wife would think of such goings-on, when he told her.

-----

Dinner time saw far fewer guests that the night before. Some had ridden home on their equally weary hunters; some had piled their happy families into their carriages and trundled away. Colneford Castle was left a quieter place by their absence.

Dinner itself was rather a silent affair. Sir John was dozing precariously over his ragout. Lord Sattersby was drinking more than was good for him. The Earl was as pleasant as ever, but the long day's exercise had worn down even his tremendous vitality.

Bellini was enjoying his dinner, free to indulge his appetite without worrying about thickening his voice, since no one was in any condition to demand entertainment. He and Letty were talking about an upcoming concert in which he was to appear. Because of it, he was leaving the following Monday, to Letty and Jane's disappointment, to attend the needed rehearsals.

"I hope that you ladies will be able to attend!" he wheedled, with his charming smile.

"It sounds delightful," Jane agreed, "but I simply don't know. I shall have to ask Colonel Tavington what is planned. The sixth, you say? I would certainly think we would have returned by then. The Colonel said we would be here only a week."

"Oh, I hope we can hear you!" Letty said feelingly. She felt that a little country air went a long way. The hunt had been so noisy and smelly. Letty was afraid of big dogs, from frightening past experience. She had sung at the hunt ball, and been admired; but these people, though pleasant, were not passionate about music and art. She was ready to go back and see Lord Fanshawe's paintings, and to hear concerts and see plays. She wanted her sister to talk to the Colonel and get his agreement.

But Jane was seated too far away to easily speak to her husband. Doing so would require shouting, and Jane was unwilling to make such a pathetic spectacle of herself: the neglected wife who must halloo down the table to catch her husband's attention. They had not spoken in over two days. In fact, other than a handful of words in passing, they had not spoken at all since arriving at the castle. Jane was seething with anger when she allowed herself to think of Tavington.

Lady Sattersby's laugh, high and overexcited, rang above the low buzz of talk. She was telling the Earl of a fall she had taken during the hunt.

"It was near the beech grove, my lord. Bluebell caught her hoof and down we went! I feared I would be crushed!"

Her kind father-in-law was alarmed for her. "My dear girl! You should have told us earlier. Mr. Fikes, the apothecary, was nearby to tend the injured. Perhaps—"

"Oh, no! Fear nothing for me! Colonel Tavington was down beside me in a moment. I should have quite lost without him!" She laughed again, so brightly it set Jane's teeth on edge. "My poor mare wouldn't get up for anything! It took all the Colonel's skill to soothe her."

"Not hurt, was she?"

"Oh, no!" declared Lady Sattersby. "She's wonderfully well. Better than ever, in fact!"

Sir John started out of his doze, and studied the lady. She certainly was even livelier than usual—he thought excessively so. His gaze wandered to his brother and his brother's wife.

Tavington was smirking to himself, a happy, smug, expression, that contrasted with Mrs. Tavington, who looked vexed beyond words. The lady looked up, and Sir John's eyes met hers. She seemed a little flustered at his notice. He gave her a civil nod, and then turned to examining his brother.

Jane thought Sir John looked very grave. He must have noticed the noisy flirtation, even with the amount he had eaten and drunk. She sighed and pushed her food about her plate. It was getting cold. She told a passing servant, "Take it away," in a sharper tone than she generally used.

It was time to nurse her son. She rose, excusing herself to her companions. The Earl noticed her departure, looking up in concern, which was allayed by a word from his older nephew. Jane had decided that she would take care of William Francis _now. _When she finished, she would go to the drawing room to await the other diners. The gentlemen, no doubt, would linger over their wine, but her husband would certainly join them eventually, if only to speak to his dear Lady Sattersby. As soon as he arrived, Jane decided she would waylay him and discuss their departure. She had no great desire to go back to Mortimer Square, but it was better than watching her husband pay court to another woman.

-----

Moll was ready to leave as well. The nursery at the castle was by no means as comfortable or convenient as that in London. She had hardly seen Tom since they arrived, for the menservants were lodged in another wing, and Tom had been run off his feet in the past few days. The other servants were distant and unhelpful. There was unpleasant gossip, too: the sort that Moll despised, but which in this case was impossible to ignore. The Colonel was making a fool of himself over his cousin's wife. Moll couldn't make head or tail of the situation. Why didn't Lord Sattersby call him out and have it out with him like a man? No man worth his salt would sit there and let some fellow take liberties the way she had heard the Colonel was with that Lady Sattersby. The woman herself must be no better than she should be. A _lady! _

"Ha!" Moll muttered to herself.

"What was that, Moll?" asked Jane, coming into the dingy nursery under the eaves.

"Just thinking to myself, ma'am. How long are we staying here, anyway?"

Jane looked around the cheerless room. "It's not very nice, is it?" she sighed, and unfastened her dress.

Moll picked up Little Will, now fussing at the prospect of a hearty supper, and helped Jane put him to her breast. She saw no point in beating about the bush.

"No, ma'am. Not a patch on Lady Cecily's house, 'least as far as the nursery's concerned."

"I can't say I've enjoyed my stay either. I'll try to get a word with the Colonel tonight. They're still at dinner. I thought if I came and got the baby settled, I could wait in the drawing room and speak to him there."

Pressing her lips together in disapproval, Moll blurted out, "There's been talk, ma'am."

Jane tilted her head back. _Trust Moll to be honest._ "I'm sure there has been. About the Colonel and Lady Sattersby, I suppose."

"Yes, ma'am! You oughtn't to let them get away with such goings-on! If Royston had served me so, I'd have punched his face and switched the hussy half-way to Virginia!"

Jane, near tears, laughed instead, a little hysterically. "I'm sure you would!" She grew sad, and rubbed her baby's warm little back for comfort. "I don't think that would work very well for me. For one thing, I'm sure I can't punch as hard as you. It's probably just a flirtation. I don't know that they've done anything truly wicked."

"Hmph!" Moll paced the room, full of indignation. "I'd say carrying on like _sweethearts_ under your nose is wicked enough! The Colonel ought to be ashamed of himself! I'd tell him so myself for a farthing!"

"Please don't," Jane begged, very seriously. "Things could be worse. I don't think the Colonel is one to let any woman tell him what to do in a case like this. I'll have to bear it, and let it all blow over. In a few days, perhaps, we'll be on our way home, and Lady Sattersby will be going west to Dorset, and who knows when we'll see her again!"

"How far is Dorset?"

"I don't know. At least a hundred miles."

Moll nodded in satisfaction. "The farther, the better."

Jane could not disagree.

-----

She played on the big instrument in the drawing room for half an hour before the ladies arrived. Letty came to her side at once, looking very weary. Drawing up a chair, she turned pages, not speaking.

Lady Sattersby and Lady Trumfleet bustled in, whispering excitedly. Lady Sattersby rang for tea, and she and her sister-in-law resumed their secrets. There were a few other female guests who gathered by the fire, exchanging local gossip. Jane played on, though she was terribly tired, and longed for the bed in the big draughty room she had been assigned. She considered asking Letty to sleep there tonight, for she was feeling miserably lonely.

She said to Letty in an undertone, "Would you like to play for awhile?"

"I will if you like, but I am so tired. As soon as Mr. Bellini arrives, I shall say goodnight."

"I, too, as soon as I can ask the Colonel when we are to depart." She found that every drop of _allegro_ had deserted her. Here was a slow and melancholy air that suited her better.

Tavington came soon, arriving with Bellini, rather eager to see the ladies—or at least one special lady. Kitty's eyes met his as soon as he entered the room, and he headed directly to her, only to find his way unexpectedly barred.

Jane had intercepted him, and when he tried to pass with a quick smile and a nod, she touched his arm, and said, quietly but urgently, "If you please, sir, I would speak to you."

Annoyed, he managed another smile that Jane did not bother to return. "Of course, madam. I am quite at your service."

She cocked her head, and her expression was slightly sneering. "It is only to ask how long we are to stay?" Seeing his brows knit in a frown, she pressed on. "Mr. Bellini is singing in a concert on the sixth that Letty and I would particularly enjoy hearing. It was my understanding that your duties did not permit a longer absence anyway."

Kitty was looking a delicious invitation at him. Impatiently, he told Jane, "I had not fixed a day. If you wish to go to this concert, I see no reason why you could not leave—Tuesday."

Jane's brows rose. "You wish us to leave without you?" Her voice darkened, and grew a little rough.

"Yes—why not? John and I still have business at Wargrave that can't be finished until Friday at the latest. You and Letty go on to your concert. I shall join you later at home." Kitty and Sattersby would be leaving on the following Friday. He would have at least that time to be with her. He nodded, satisfied with his plans, and left Jane standing open-mouthed in the middle of the drawing-room.

* * *

**Note--**Thanks to all my reviewers. And 999--I was much flattered by the Edith Wharton reference.

**Next—Chapter 35: Flirting with Disaster **


	35. Flirting With Disaster

**Chapter 35: Flirting with Disaster **

"Somebody _saw_ them?" Moll asked again, shaking her head.

"Plain as day," Tom assured her. "Right there in the little grove of copper beeches about a mile to the west, the fellows say. Gave the cottager quite a turn."

"I should say so!" Moll exclaimed, very indignant. "I don't know what's got into the Colonel--carrying on so, making his wife ashamed to show her face. You'd at least think the woman would have some sense!"

Tom shrugged, looking around to see if anyone was eavesdropping on them. The castle was a silent place, early on Sunday morning. He had the excuse of a message from Mrs. Tavington to pay a call on Moll, but in a strange house, you never knew who might be on the watch.

"Got to get back to the boots, my flame-haired beauty, so give us a kiss!"

"Get on with you!" laughed Moll, giving him a hearty shove. Thinking again, she held onto his arm, and pulled him around for an equally hearty kiss. "That's all you get, Tom! No one's going to have cause to gossip about _me!_"

He grinned and lounged away, disappearing down the dark, narrow stairs. Moll shook her head again, wondering what the world was coming to. Should she tell Mrs. Tavington the honest truth? Would it hurt more than it helped? And should she be the one to make the decision?

"If I don't tell her, someone else will: and they might not break it to her easy."

As it happened, Moll was not put in that unpleasant position at all. At that very moment Pullen was giving Jane the whole story.

"--And the tenant of Greengage Cottage was passing by and saw them together on the ground. The lady was not—some of her clothes were off. 'Tweren't only kissing—the fellow saw him putting it to her—"

Jane flinched.

"Beg pardon, ma'am. 'Tis an ugly tale." The maid didn't intend to further wound her mistress, but added in her terse way, "I hate to see men deceiving women. I've seen it all my life. "Tain't right, you going around in a fool's paradise, while the Colonel sports with his cousin's wife. I'm sorry if what I tell you hurts you, ma'am; but I couldn't be easy until you heard the truth."

The maid set down the comb, and wrung her work-reddened hands, wondering if she had made a terrible mistake, and was about to be sacked.

Jane spoke after a long moment, very quietly. "I'm not angry with you, Pullen. You did what you thought was right. Perhaps it is best that I know the truth. Finish my hair, if you please, and then see to Miss Rutledge. I'm not sure I want you to tell her this, though. It's not—"

"Too late," said Letty, coming into the room. She sat down on the unmade bed, looking very depressed. "What are you going to do?"

"Go on with my hair, Pullen," Jane told the maid. She felt rather numb. "First of all, I need to see the baby. Then I thought I'd walk to church today. I'm told it is half a mile, but the weather is fair enough, and I most desperately want to get out of the castle. I've always rather held to the idea of letting the horses rest on Sunday. It seems silly to call the coach to go only half a mile. What do you say?"

Letty nodded. "It would be a quiet place.. Do you think anyone else will come with us?"

"Probably not. Nothing was said about it last night, though I left the drawing room early."

"I left a little after you did, but I didn't hear any talk about church, either. Everyone wanted to play cards, and I would have made nine, so there was no point in staying. I was tired out by Lady Sattersby's high spirits anyway."

Jane smiled bitterly. "That makes two of us."

-----

The rest of the inhabitants of the castle slept quite late, and then made their way to the sunny breakfast parlor to partake of a leisurely meal. Bellini, never an early riser in any case, was not among them. It was agreed by the balance of the party to give their horses a rest after the demands of the day before; and a stroll through the gardens was proposed, to be followed by a picnic luncheon.

"Might as well enjoy the good weather with a simply, rustic meal outdoors," Lord Colchester grunted, pleased with his idea. Having his family about him, enjoying themselves, was his favorite pastime. Dear Kitty looked so happy and lively. Even Sattersby seemed in good spirits. Usually he was sulky around William, for reasons the earl had never understood, but his son had had a good hunt yesterday, and exercise was always the best thing for a man. He smiled at his younger nephew, pleased with him too. Trust William to see that no harm came to a lady. Damned resourceful of him.

He frowned a little, looking John's way. That boy had had too much to drink last night, and was uncommonly quiet. Something was on his mind, but the earl knew better than to pry. If John wanted his advice, he'd ask for it. Probably thinking about all the renovations needed at Wargrave. An expensive business, but he was glad that John was taking an interest in the place at last. His daughter Anne was smiling to herself, the way she always did when she knew something no one else did. Some sort of surprise, probably. Perhaps she had some charming trifle to give at the picnic to William's wife, as a sort of wedding present. The earl had suggested it himself.

He looked about. Where _were_ Mrs. Tavington and her pretty sister? He had not seen much of them in the past day or so. They had been quiet at dinner, he remembered, and then had retired early. He hoped they had not quarreled with one another. Women were always quarreling about trifles. They generally seemed the best of friends, playing their music and chatting with that Italian fellow he had engaged to amuse them. Good thought, that. Fine entertainment at the ball, and a nice way of presenting William's new wife to the county at large. The new Mrs. Tavington was no great beauty, but she was a quiet, modest creature, and played charmingly--and the pretty sister sang like an angel. Nice, agreeable girls, even if they were Colonials with an odd way of speaking.

He felt a little guilty in not arranging for Mrs. Tavington to take part in the hunt. It would not do for her to feel neglected. She had made the best of it, like a good girl, saying she would keep her sister company, but anyone would rather hunt that stay at home all day. Perhaps he could arrange a little party to venture down to that pretty bend of the river on horseback, and see if Miss Rutledge would like to learn to ride.

He considered his stable. Mrs. Tavington said she knew how to ride, and would enjoy Posy—good, smooth action, if a little tall. That meant—oh, yes—there was Shadow. Patient old fellow. The gelding would carry a woman, and nothing startled him—not even a woman's flapping skirts. Yes, Shadow would do for Miss Rutledge. He smiled broadly over the remains of his eggshells, as he shaped his pleasant scheme.

As his butler passed, the earl asked, "Where are Mrs. Tavington and Miss Rutledge?"

"I am told, my lord, that the ladies walked to church a little while ago."

"Oh! Well, very nice, that: very proper. Very considerate, letting the coach horses have their day of rest. Well done. When they return, see that they are informed that we are walking the gardens today and tell them about the luncheon. Wouldn't do for them to miss it."

"My lord."

-----

A trestle table, covered with fine linen, gleaming silver, and delicate crystal, was laid under the arbor. Tavington smiled at the sight, contemplating his uncle's idea of "simple" and "rustic." In South Carolina, the words meant sitting on the ground, consuming maggoty salt beef and foul tea. This was definitely an improvement.

They had had a pleasant stroll through the gardens, Kitty's arm in his. She looked at him, shining with happiness, every touch and look recalling the hunt, their tryst in the woods, and their even greater pleasure last night, when he had slipped into her room after all the house was asleep. She was very fond of flowers, and they all lingered in the rose garden, enjoying the very last blooms of the season. The men watched indulgently while Kitty and Anne ran about, smelling every single variety.

His uncle had told him that Jane and Letty had gone to church, and would be informed of the luncheon plans when they returned. They would be joining them soon, Tavington knew. He had seen them, at a distance, two cloaked figures walking slowly up the road. The girls had made an excellent impression on his uncle, who thought them good and gentle, and presumably devout, since they had risen early to attend divine service. Jane's stock, as the mother of a baby son, was very high with the Earl.

The latest plan, to include them in a riding excursion, he thought very kind of his uncle. _I had no idea that Jane knew how to ride._ He found it hard to believe that she could ride well. Certainly Letty knew nothing about it, and everything would have to be very sedate and undemanding. It was typically good of Uncle Colchester, of course, to wish to include them.

Kitty gave him another pert smile, looking up from a dewy pink rose. Now _she_ could ride. Her fall he did not hold against her. There never was a daring rider who did not take a fall now and then. He had had his share of falls, himself. The memory of Cowpens made him scowl, and he felt for a moment that a shadow had been cast on the day. Remembering the battle made him remember the agony of his wounds, and how very nearly they had proved mortal. _If Jane had not come to me— _

"Uncle Colchester has informed me that we are going to Wargrave on Tuesday. Good of you to let me know my plans."

"John!" Tavington laughed at how his brother had startled him out of his thoughts. "Yes, I thought that was the plan all along."

His brother was not smiling. "Why Tuesday? Oh, yes—that's the day you ordered Mrs. Tavington to absent herself. The next time you want to deceive your wife, pray do not use me as your alibi."

Tavington was shocked at John's cold words. "Good God! Are you angry with me? And what's this about ordering Jane about? She wants to go to some concert or other."

His brother took him by the arm and hustled him away from the rest of the party. "We need to talk." Once hidden behind a wall, John lowered his voice and said directly, "You were seen."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You and Kitty. In the woods, playing Adam and Eve. You were seen. The tenant of one of Uncle's cottages passed by a critical moment. All the servants are talking."

Tavington grimaced, considered denying everything, and then glanced at his brother again. "God."

"Just so. I think Anne knows. She's smirking in that way she has. I daresay nobody has dared to tell Sattersby or our uncle."

"You don't think Jane—"

"Why do you think she wanted to leave, Will? She's been watching you make love to Kitty in public since you arrived. Perhaps she's had enough of it by now."

"Oh, come!" Then more quietly, he ventured, "Have we been _very_ indiscreet?"

His brother did not dignify the question with a reply.

"Well," said Tavington heavily, "this is most—unfortunate."

"Ha!"

"Poor Kitty! If someone were to tell Sattersby!"

"Damned silly of her. She won't find it all so romantic if Sattersby petitions Parliament for a divorce and you are named as her partner in the scandal! What the devil were you thinking?"

"I think I'm rather in love with her," Tavington smiled. "She's simply exquisite. We lost our heads—it happens!"

"And what about your wife? I should rather say 'Poor Jane' than 'Poor Kitty!' If you had seen the look on her face last night as you brushed her aside to pay court to another!"

Tavington had not thought about how Jane would feel. "Was she very angry?"

John studied him, his face graver than ever. "Not angry—desolate. You have wounded her sorely—humiliated her in public. You yourself told me she was clever. How could think she would not notice?"

_Because I did not wish to think about it._ He quieted such qualms of conscience. "All she saw was foolish flirtation. She cannot know the worst of it."

"If I were so coarse as to make a wager about your wife, I would lay odds that someone has given her the news either last night or early this morning. Take a good look at her face when she sits down to luncheon—if you can tear your eyes from Kitty's 'exquisite' countenance!"

"Very well! I shall try to be a model of discretion."

"It may be too late for that. Good God, Will! Kitty is Sattersby's wife and she hasn't even given him an heir yet! What a way to thank our Uncle for his kindness—for he will be besmirched by the scandal as much as you or Kitty or anybody else. His reputation has been above reproach all his life—and now it may be ruined forever! Could you not spare the old fellow _that?" _

"All right," snarled Tavington, thinking hard. "It must be dealt with. We must track down the witness and pay him off. A hundred pounds should buy his silence. He can say he was drunk or dreaming. Have your man Pratt see to it today—better not to have my own manservant involved. There will be less to connect me to a meeting between them. I have the money with me, and we'll use a few quiet threats, too. I'll burn down his bloody cottage if he blabs."

John hacked at some tall grass with his walking stick. "As good a plan as any. I'll speak to Pratt directly. And I suggest you keep your breeches buttoned for the duration of our stay—or remember that you have a perfectly nice wife—if she'll still have you!" He stalked away, with another slash at the vegetation.

Tavington carefully avoided Kitty thereafter, attaching himself to his uncle and cousin, getting Sattersby to tell him more about the last kill of the hunt. He would try to talk to Kitty later, if they could find a moment when they could speak together unheard. But they must not disappear together. Tavington was beginning to see just how serious the situation was. Kitty was on the verge of ruin, and his uncle would never forgive Tavington if he were the cause.

To his further dismay, Jane and Letty arrived, both solemn as judges. He recalled the resentful look Letty had given him the day before. If even humble Letty thought he had behaved badly—well, his behavior must have seemed _very_ bad, for her to dare show disapproval. Uncomfortably, he remembered that he had forgotten to dance with Jane at the ball. Thinking over it rationally, he admitted that women found such lapses insulting. In fact, if a woman had promised to dance with _him,_ and then had slighted him for another... He scowled. Jane had good reason to be put out with him for that alone. He had not visited her bed once while they had been here. He had been neglectful and rude.

Jane and Letty stood at the edges of the party, looking at the late-blooming roses, talking quietly to each other. Tavington wondered if approaching them right now would be good strategy or a catastrophic mistake. The latter, clearly. Jane's eyes met his briefly, and in them he read a world of pain and anger. _She knows everything. _

And just at that moment, his uncle hurried over to tell her about his splendid plans for the morrow. Jane looked at him blankly, and then looked as if she had never heard anything so unappealing in her life. The expression was momentary; for immediately her schooling in manners and deportment triumphed, and Tavington heard her thank Lord Colchester for his solicitude for their amusement—in a quiet, subdued tone that only his uncle could mistake for enthusiasm.

"I cannot, however, be gone long from my son," she told him.

"But my dear," cried Lord Colchester, who had considered even this issue in plotting the entertainment, "How easy! I shall have your nursemaid and the child brought by carriage to meet us at the picnic site! The boy will have an airing, and you will have all the comfort and privacy you require."

"Then—that is very kindly thought of you, my lord. What say you, sister?" Jane asked Letty. "Would you enjoy such a outing?"

And of course, Letty would not dare contradict anyone. "Thank you, my lord. It sounds very interesting. I have never been on a horse."

His uncle positively swelled with excitement, like a big badger in a thicket. "My dear young lady, you will find it the best thing in the world! I have selected the gentlest of steeds for your first efforts. All will be done to make it a pleasure. We will only ride a few miles, and then have a picnic luncheon, and then enjoy a slow, easy amble back home. You will find yourself a skillful horsewoman by the end of the venture—and made one in the least taxing fashion!"

"I am sure you know best, my lord," Letty replied, in her sweet, submissive fashion.

Tavington prayed that no harm befell her. In fact, he would spend all his time with Letty and Jane. It was appropriate. It was unquestionably what he was called upon to do. Hard as it was, he would try not to so much as look at Kitty for the entire time.

"Will, my boy!" called Lord Colchester. "Your ladies have been so good as to agree to my little scheme. Such a relief. With Bellini dashing off tomorrow, I didn't want them to suffer boredom their last day! Only wish they could stay longer!"

Tavington smiled and walked over, feeling his uncle was sufficient protection against his wife's wrath. "It was kindly thought of you, Uncle. I shall look after them particularly, of course, and see that no harm comes to them."

"Well done! My dear young ladies, you know you need fear nothing. Just look at my dear Kitty! Took a tumble and Will here saw her safe. I'm sure he'd do as much for you."

"Certainly, my lord," Jane agreed civilly, spearing her husband with a look that would freeze lava. "but neither I nor my sister have any intention of _falling." _

Tavington forced an uneasy smile, sweating in the cool breeze. He considered offering Jane his arm, but knew that he should not risk it in front of all these people.

Bellini arrived, greeting them with an expansive, genial gesture, and Tavington felt a pang of jealousy to see his wife's quick, genuine smile at the sight of him. The singing master bowed elaborately, and he, rather than Tavington, gave an arm to each of his ladies. They wandered off, while the Italian began some long, convoluted story involving music, flowers, and star-crossed lovers.

The subsequent luncheon was one of the most uncomfortable occasions of Tavington's life. Kitty was as happy and lively as she had been at breakfast, but now Tavington could see that she was hopelessly transparent. She was flirting openly with him. It was flagrant: it was beyond indiscreet. Only blind passion had allowed him to imagine that no one else would notice.

Sattersby seemed undisturbed by Kitty's behavior, and it was possible that she behaved this way all the time. The idea that Kitty had flirted with other men thus was rather distasteful, but could not be avoided. So much the better. If Sattersby thought Kitty a flirt, but no worse, much danger could be averted. Trumfleet seemed interested only in the food and wine and horse talk. Sir John determinedly joined it, and Tavington participated earnestly. He tried to warn Kitty with his eyes to moderate her behavior. She did not understand, and looked back at him with pointed exasperation.

Tavington was beginning to be horribly embarrassed. Jane and Letty were very quiet, uninterested in their plates, and answering politely when spoken to. They rarely looked up, other than to chat quietly with Bellini. Lady Trumfleet glanced at Tavington with malicious amusement. He could deal with his cousin, and gave her a blank, uncomprehending stare which confused her.

At the end of the meal, Lady Trumfleet presented Jane with a little package wrapped in silk. "A trifling gift," smiled the earl's daughter, at her most patronizing, "to welcome you to the family."

Jane smiled automatically, and dutifully untied the ribbons. The soft flowered silk slipped away and revealed— "A snuffbox," Jane said. _Who here has ever seen me take snuff? I think it's a dirty habit._

The little box was quite valuable: jewel-encrusted gold with brilliantly colored enamel detailing the Death of General Wolfe in miniature. Jane thought it the ugliest, most vulgarly ostentatious object she had ever seen.

"How charming," she said instantly, "And with a martial theme. I thank you for this keepsake of my visit."

"It seemed just the right thing for you," Lady Trumfleet said, too smoothly.

"How remarkable," Jane replied, just as smoothly, "that you could comprehend my taste on such a brief acquaintance."

Tavington saw the exchange, and saw at once that Jane was offended. _Why on earth should she object to an expensive present?_ No, she did not use snuff, but the box was valuable as an ornament--or she could store pins in it--or whatever it was women did with such things. Jane, it was clear, was in no mood to be pleased with anything or anybody.

And then the earl had a new inspiration. "Look here! We have all these beautiful, accomplished young ladies! I should like to hear you all together. What do you say, Bellini? Don't you know something or other for all the girls to perform together? We have Miss Rutledge and Anne to sing, and Kitty on the harp and Mrs. Tavington on the harpsichord. That would be a fine thing! Wish I'd thought of it before!"

"Oh, that does sound delightful!" cried Kitty excitedly. "We can practice all afternoon and give you a gala performance after dinner tonight!"

Lady Trumfleet raised her brows. "I think it will be most entertaining." She sat back, watching Jane, a little secret smile playing about her mouth.

Jane thought it was the worst idea in the history of bad ideas, but the earl was her host and a good-hearted man. "I shall do my part, of course," she quietly assented.

Letty added, "And I, too."

"Capital!" cried Lord Colchester. "We have a memorable evening before us, eh, gentlemen?"

_Not too memorable,_ Tavington hoped. He would barricade himself in the library and stay far, far away from the women as long as possible.

-----

Bellini proved himself worth every penny that afternoon. Jane had nothing to do but play notes. She did not, thank God, have to sing the silly words of the songs, which were all about love. The singing master chose three charming pieces, taught Letty and Lady Trumfleet their parts, marked the music to show where Mrs. Tavington should play, and where Lady Sattersby should play; and where they should play together. Had Jane not hated Lady Sattersby and her odious displays of friendship with all her heart, it would have been very interesting and enjoyable.

And Lady Sattersby would not stop her overtures, despite Jane's stony response. After finishing a lovely duet from _The Faery Queen_, Lady Sattersby left her harp and came to sit by Jane, touching her hand. "Wasn't that wonderful? How I love to play with others. You and I have so much in common! I know that we're going to be great friends!"

Jane stared at her in disbelief, and pulled her hand away. The woman was incomprehensible. Lady Sattersby did not seem to be malicious or spiteful; simply oblivious to the wounds she had inflicted. Jane choked out, "I am aware of all we have in common. I am not sure it is a sound basis for friendship."

She peered at her music, and pretended to practice a difficult measure. Lady Sattersby turned away, puzzled and hurt.

Letty was terribly embarrassed by some of the lyrics, and began to blush. Her voice faded to nothing, and Bellini came over, concerned for her. "I am sorry, Maestro," she told him, addressing him as she had been taught. "How can I sing such things in front of men?"

Bellini did not laugh at her, for he was a sensitive man; but he gave the other ladies a welcome pause in their labors, while he sat with Letty and explained how an artist distances himself from the ordinary mores of society when he creates his art. "When you sing these words, Miss Rutledge, you are a shepherdess singing on a timeless hillside. You are not the young lady guest of Milord the Earl of Colchester, but an instrument of music."

Letty blushed and laughed. "I am a musical instrument?"

"But of course!" he replied, smiling brilliantly. "You, the singer, are your own instrument. The music comes from you: from your heart, your voice, your body. The music is you: you are the music. Fear nothing, and sing your best!"

Dinner was not quite a family affair: the vicar and his wife had been invited to Sunday dinner, as they always were every Sunday when the earl was in residence at Colneford Castle. They were an unassuming pair, carefully pleasant in the company of a nobleman and his family and guests. Jane saw no harm in them, but nothing to interest her either. Besides, she would be gone on Tuesday. She made polite conversation and waited for dinner to be done.

The earl was so eager for the promised entertainment that the gentlemen joined the ladies almost as soon as the ladies had had time to sit down in the drawing room. There followed an organized bustle, and Bellini proudly presented his ad-hoc ensemble to his audience. It was not the first time he been employed thus, but he thought these particular ladies likely to reflect more credit on him that most of their ilk.

And so it proved. Even the song that embarrassed Letty so was a charming success, though Letty was not the only person to find the lyrics too pointed:

_"Shepherd, shepherd, leave decoying, _

_Pipes are sweet as summer day, _

_But a little after toying, _

_Women have the shot to pay. _

_Hence are marriage vows for signing, _

_Set their marks that cannot write; _

_After that, without repining, _

_Play and welcome day and night. _

_Play and welcome, _

_Play and welcome, _

_Play and welcome _

_Day and night!" _

Tavington looked away in discomfort when his brother raised his eyes at him. John was slightly drunk. In fact, they were all rather drunk. Tavington was still trying to decide whose company to seek out tonight. He would love to spend as much time as possible with Kitty, but Jane was already angry with him. He should have it out with her, make it up to her, and then, after she left on Tuesday, he could resume his romance with Kitty—with appropriate stealth and discretion, of course.

As soon as the ladies had finished their music and were vigorously applauded, Jane left to bring down the baby. It was a good opportunity for him, Tavington decided. Perhaps he could soften her displeasure by displaying his very real affection for his little son. Thus he took the baby from her and brought William Francis over to be played with by his doting great-uncle.

Lord Colchester was never able to get enough of his young relatives. Lady Trumfleet had two children, who were safely ensconced in their nursery in their country house half a kingdom away. That was the way Lady Trumfleet liked it. Her sister, the absent Lady Sarah, had a daughter, also at considerable distance. However, none of those children could inherit the earldom, and Lord Colchester was becoming anxious for his son to produce an heir. Perhaps, the earl considered, Sattersby might be inspired by his cousin's example. The two had always competed. Kitty, too, would certainly be as good a mother as William's little Colonial wife.

Lady Sattersby, indeed, came by to admire the baby. "Such a darling!" she said, overlooking Jane's coldness to her before. "How I envy you, Mrs. Tavington!"

Jane wanted to slap her. A number of replies crossed her mind.

_"I hardly think I am an object of envy—" _

_No. Perhaps, "I'm sure my husband can oblige you with one of your own—" _

_Or, there was, "Get away from my son, you disgusting harlot—" _

There was nothing she wanted to say that would not put her in the wrong. She managed a tight grimace in place of a smile, and said only, "Thank you."

When at last the men were done, she gathered her child up, and said goodnight to Bellini, who would be leaving early in the morning. "Thank you for your company, sir. It would have been—not so pleasant without you."

The tall Italian bent over the baby with a warm smile, and then gave her a graceful bow of farewell. "We will meet again soon in London, Madame. I shall call to give you, Miss Rutledge, a lesson on Thursday, and then you both must come to the Theater Royal on Friday to hear the concert!"

"We shall certainly be there."

-----

_Only one more day. _Jane lay awake, suffering something she had never anticipated: terrible homesickness for her life in South Carolina. She longed for her father's house, where she had rarely experienced worse than a few hard words. Or better—if only she could have remained with Cousin Mary, in the pretty house on Bay Street, surrounded by people and things she knew and understood, and where she was known and respected. If only she had not lost her senses over handsome, unreliable William Tavington.

_If only I could leave him— _

Impossible. They were married. He had her fortune, and all that was left to her were the few hundred pounds in her tin box. If she fled, she would be caught. And then, even if William were living in open adultery with Lady Sattersby, it was Jane who would be divorced for desertion. William could smugly strip her of everything she owned, and then take William Francis from her and give him to his mistress to raise. Jane would never see her child again. A father's rights to his child were absolute in law. Jane knew that perfectly well from her own upbringing.

She had dreamed of escaping her father's house, and she had done it. From her existence in England, however, there could be no escape. This was her life, for better or worse, and she must find a way to survive it. No one would be able to find fault with her own conduct. No one would have an excuse to take her child. No one was raising William Francis Tavington but Jane herself.

What could she do? Much as she would like to denounce the guilty pair before the whole world, how would that actually benefit her? The disgrace would besmirch them all, even the Earl, who was a well-meaning man and an innocent party. It would certainly not improve her marriage. She would like to lock her husband out of her room—to let him know how it felt to be rejected. If she did so, the world would regard her as an undutiful wife, who had brought her husband's unfaithfulness on herself. She would like to scream at William, excoriate him for the pain and humiliation he had caused her, but again—what good would that do her in the long run? She was not a child, to give in to every impulse. She prided herself on her intelligence. If she had made a dreadful mistake in choosing her husband, it was past and she must live with it, and never be so easily swayed by whims again. The question remained: how to keep her dignity and self-respect in the bleak situation in which she currently found herself?

A soft knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. Jane thought first of Moll, and then of Letty, who had been concerned about her. She slipped cautiously down from the high, high bed, and went to the door.

"William!"

He was there, smiling. Jane rebuked herself once again for being so shallow as to choose a husband for his looks. His still pleased her, but she was now painfully aware of the character flaws hidden by his fine features and splendid physique. She would not shout at him, but neither would she swoon with joy because he had deigned to visit her.

"Have you not mistaken the room, sir? Is the door you seek not further down the hall?"

"Jane!" He entered the room, and shut the door behind him. "Are you very angry with me?"

She raised a curious eyebrow. "Should I be pleased with you?"

He looked regretful. "I am very sorry that this silly business with Lady Sattersby has distressed you. She is pretty and paid me attention, and I rather lost my head. But it is over, now."

"The flirtation was quite bad enough, but for you and she to—"

He had prepared himself to brazen it out. "Nothing happened during the hunt!" he passionately declared. "I swear it! I have only now heard that some cottager has spread some vile gossip, but it is a damned lie. I'll tell you what actually happened: Kitty was thrown from her horse—pretty roughly. Of course her clothing was disarranged. She lay stunned on the ground, and I had to examine her to see if she was badly injured. I confess I put my arms around her to comfort her, but nothing else happened. The idea is ridiculous! She was too shaken for anything of the sort, as you can well imagine. John has spoken to the rascal about inventing vicious tales about a lady to make himself important, and has put a stop to it!"

Jane was utterly taken aback by his denial. He seemed perfectly sincere. "You swear that nothing happened? You _swear_ it?"

He put his hand on his heart. "I do, on my honor. You must believe me. Unthinking and careless—even vain--I may have been, but never so lost to what is owed you and my family that I would betray you all." He paused. She eyed him skeptically. Very urgently, he continued, "I ask you to treat these idle tales as they deserve. They can do immeasurable harm not just to Lady Sattersby, but to my good uncle, and to all of us. If you behave resentfully to Lady Sattersby, you will give only give substance to malicious gossip!"

"It was you who gave it substance in the first place by your attentions to your cousin's wife!"

"Yes—I confess it. I hardly know myself, behaving so." He took her by the hand, and led her to the bed. "Come, you are cold. Let us get warm and talk it all through."

Unwillingly, Jane consented to climb back into the bed, settling as far as possible from William. It was useless. He persisted in cuddling against her, lying on his side, one hand stroking her hip. "I am very sorry to have caused you pain. It was wrong of me. Since I have returned to England, I have—I don't know—been rather off-balance, you see. To be safe—to not be shot at—to be free of hardship and danger—I'm afraid it's been difficult for me to adjust to the change. I have been more idle than my wont, and was bored. Lady Sattersby was there and flattered my vanity, and you have been so busy with the baby—"

Jane's eyes flashed fire. She sat up in bed and gave her husband a hard shove. "How dare you! _How dare you!_ If you excuse your own wrong-doing by blaming me for being a good mother to _our son_, then you're a worse man than I thought!"

"Jane!" His hand caught hers, and for a brief moment he looked very angry; but then he took a deep breath and said, "Forgive me. That was uncalled-for. I only meant that I selfishly wanted all your attention for myself. It was wrong. It is obviously impossible when one has children. You _know_ I love our son."

"Yes," she admitted, still angry. "I know you love him. Because you love him, I expect you to protect him from harm—even the sort of harm the stigma of scandal could inflict. I don't ask it for myself. I sometimes forget that ours is only a financial arrangement. You have hurt me cruelly, but I cannot complain if you bestow your affections on others, when I know they have never been bestowed on me—"

He tried to protest, but she raised her voice and continued, "What I _do_ expect is that you show me some measure of respect and courtesy—at least the courtesy you would show a passing acquaintance. When you scorn me in public as you have every single day here, you make me a laughingstock, and I have not deserved that of you!"

"Jane!" He pulled her close, and spoke very low. "You are wrong. You are very dear to me. I know that I owe everything to you—my life, my fortune, my present happiness. You have given me a beautiful child, and you are my wife. Nothing can ever change that."

His mouth sought hers for a deep, sweet kiss, and his hands stroked over her body. "You _are_ my dearest Jane," he whispered, and used every power he possessed to convince her of it.

-----

Jane slipped out of bed very early the next morning, leaving her husband fast asleep. Pullen came to help her dress, whispering the latest news in a low voice. There was a trip up to the nursery to feed the baby and to talk and plan with Moll. Then she descended the stairs and found Letty already at breakfast with Bellini, who was packed and ready to leave for London. The carriage that was to take him home would arrive in less than half an hour, so the Italian was making a hearty meal before his four-hour journey.

"I will not stop on the way," he told them. "I hope to be back early in the afternoon, and see to some business in town. It is always pleasant to return to London."

He was gone before the rest of the house was stirring. Jane had another cup of tea, and then everyone seemed to arrive in the breakfast parlor at once. Lady Sattersby made her way to Jane at once, to see if she was properly equipped for riding. "If you did not bring any with you, Anne and I can lend the two of you a safeguard apiece."

Jane was confused for a moment, and then remember that a safeguard was a riding skirt with breeches, worn by women to protect their modesty in case of a fall. Jane refrained from asking if Lady Sattersby had worn one the day of the hunt. It might have been nearly as effective as a chastity belt. Instead, she tried very hard to be civil.

"Are they black?" she asked, and was assured that they were, and would thus do well with any color the jackets of their habits might be. "Then I thank you kindly for the thought. It is just as well. I have not ridden in some time, and my sister never."

Lady Sattersby was a little uneasy around her today, Jane sensed: a little too eager to please. Perhaps someone had told her about the gossip and she was frightened. Letty also thanked her for her help, and they all went upstairs to try on the garments. Letty found that Lady Sattersby's safeguard fitted her reasonably well, but Lady Trumfleet's offering required pinning on Jane.

There was a final visit to the nursery to see if William Francis needed anything and to see that Moll was prepared for her own outing.

The nursemaid laughed. "Reckon I'll feel like a queen, riding alone in the carriage with the baby!" She grew grave. "So the Colonel says it was just gossip, about that lady and all. Think it's true?"

"I don't know what to believe, Moll. Apparently the cottager has changed his story, and denied he ever said such things. I do know that nothing good will come out of too close an inquiry into the facts. If the Colonel was untrue to me, there's really not much I can do about it. He's said he was sorry that he flirted with Lady Sattersby and gave everyone the wrong impression. I shall have to be satisfied with that."

"Well, keep your eyes open anyway," Moll urged her. "I reckon he'll just be more sneaky about it from now on."

Once outside, Lord Colchester made his appearance, bounding about like a big dog, shepherding them toward today's amusements. With the help of her husband and a mounting block, Jane was tossed into a sidesaddle, and was relieved to find that she still knew how to hold her reins and her crop properly. Letty was settled onto a broadbacked, stolid old gelding, and looked as comfortable as anyone could look when five feet off the ground for the first time.

The earl led them down the road, and then past the quaint village church and through fields newly harvested of the year's crops. The earth was soft and brown under the horses' hooves, muffled by the moisture in the soil. Jane felt William's eyes on her, judging her seat and her posture, and she fixed her own eyes on Lady Sattersby ahead of her, making sure that she copied her in every respect. William seemed satisfied, for he then rode next to Letty and corrected her in a gentle voice. She had not yet fallen off, at least.

After about a mile, the woods rose up thicker on either side, and Jane and Letty rode beside each other, with William just behind.

Letty was enjoying herself. "This is—rather pleasant," she said to Jane. She was learning to move with the horse, and seemed to be doing well. Seeing them both secure, William helped them urge their mounts into a trot, and showed them how to deal with the jolting gait.

"It's a good way to see the earl's estate," Jane admitted.

Lady Sattersby was riding beside her husband, very demure, paying Lord Sattersby very flattering attention. Jane could not quite hear Sattersby's low answers, but he seemed pleased and happy to have his wife's notice. Perhaps no one had told him the gossip. _It would be a fearfully wicked thing to do, if it were a lie. _

And then the woods opened out into a river in a little valley, with thick woods on the other side of the water. Clouds scudded swiftly above them in the clear blue sky, casting vague shadows on the rolling ground.

"That's it," William told them. "That's the Colne." He smiled at them both, "Now why don't you ladies essay a canter?"

With a flick and a kick, the trot smoothed out into a quick, rocking motion. "Don't pull in your arms," William called. "Stretch them out—give the horses their heads!"

They flew down the slope toward the river. Lord Colchester hallooed out, grinning with pleasure at their tentative new skill. Everyone spurred their horses, galloping through the browning grass, kicking up clods as they went. Jane looked up sharply as Lady Sattersby shot past, her lovely mare running flat out. William smiled at the sight, and Jane had a sudden, unwelcome epiphany.

_"--I'll tell you what actually happened: Kitty was thrown from her horse—pretty roughly." _

Every other time he spoke of her, he had called her "Lady Sattersby." _Is she "Lady Sattersby" to him, or is she "Kitty?" He was less guarded when he told his story. No, she is definitely 'Kitty' when they are alone together. Perhaps what he told me is partly true, but only partly. Something did happen, and he lied to me—on his honor. _

She sighed. She had suspected as much. There was something between them. Lady Sattersby was "Kitty" to her husband. Something less than the cottager's gossip, possibly--kisses and caresses; or perhaps the man was telling the simple truth and had been threatened. It was unlikely she would ever know the full story. And as she told Moll, what could she do about it anyway? The most important thing she had learned was that her husband would not scruple to lie to her for his own advantage.

All these thoughts took only a few seconds to cross her mind, but they altered her way of thinking forever. Letty rode beside her, smiling at her sister with artless joy, her plumes whipping in the wind. Jane smiled back. It was up to her to make a life worth living for herself, without expecting William to arrange it for her.

Sir John pulled up his horse to ride beside her. "You are doing well, ma'am. Are you enjoying the exercise?"

"Yes, I like it very much. It is certainly a beautiful day for it."

"You know," said her brother-in-law, with more animation than usual, "if you and your sister would not find it too taxing, we could ride all the way to Wargrave itself this morning. It's only another five miles that way." He rose in his stirrups, gesturing vaguely to the southwest. "It's a rotten old pile, but I'm told that just makes it more picturesque. And there are the barrows and the hill, which I believe you would find interesting. William and I were going to see the steward this week, but there's no reason not to have a look at the place."

"Letty," Jane called, "Sir John wants to know if we can go another five miles and see Wargrave Hall. Do you feel up to it?"

"Oh, yes!" Letty cried. "I feel as if I could ride forever!"

But the rest of the party opposed it. Even Lord Colchester poured cold water on the plan. "If the young ladies were to ride another five miles there, it would mean another five miles back. And then they would still have the whole distance to Colneford. Another day, John. I don't want them returning to London sick and sore, and cursing my name!"

Sir John shrugged, "Only a suggestion."

"A good one, too," Tavington told his brother, "but not today. If it were only us—" He turned in the saddle to Jane, with a winning smile, "I hope you are not too disappointed."

"Rather disappointed, yes," she replied, thinking not only of the day's ride, but of the handsome man before her. "But I suppose I shall just have to live with it."

* * *

**Notes: **Divorce in the 18th century U.K. was difficult and expensive, requiring a private act of Parliament. It was virtually impossible for a woman to obtain a divorce. Very rich men sometimes did, usually for adultery or desertion. The only grounds women could cite were extreme cruelty _with_ desertion. And extreme means just that, since it was perfectly legal to beat one's wife as long as the weapon used was no thicker than the man's thumb. Some men have very big thumbs, by the way. It was not, of course, legal to kill one's wife, but as long as the little woman didn't actually give up the ghost, it was AOK. " And as Jane knows, even if a woman, by some fluke, _were_ granted a divorce, she would still lose her children. Always. Even if she fled her husband in fear for her life, she would lose her children. Always. 

This chapter is dedicated to dear old long-gone Posy, who really did have the smoothest gait on the planet.

**Next—Chapter 36: Gentlemen of the Road **


	36. Gentlemen of the Road

**Chapter 36: Gentlemen of the Road **

Anger, all-consuming anger, was bubbling inside Jane as she prepared to return to London. Yesterday's dreary feeling of disappointment had sharpened overnight. William had not sought her bed after she retired, making some excuse that she would want her sleep before her journey. He had not flirted again with Lady Sattersby, but had spent the evening playing cards with his brother and uncle. Jane had not felt like playing, and had found a book. Lady Sattersby, charmingly dressed, accompanied them on the harp. No. No flirtation, but an occasional meeting of the eyes. Jane was certain now that her husband had lied to her. The thought made her feel sick, and was not helped by the idea that somehow William thought he was doing the right thing by protecting his wife from unpleasant reality. _How stupid does he think me?_

As stupid as Lord Sattersby, evidently. There still had been no explosion from that quarter. Either her husband's cousin did not care, or was still in ignorance of the affair. Jane was glad to leave and avoid any possible unpleasantness, but she resented being packed off so her husband and his paramour could enjoy their shabby little romance without restraint. Letty was quiet, sparing her feelings, but evidently was as glad to be gone as she.

In fact, Letty was delighted to be going. London beckoned, and nothing here equaled it. She had seen and stayed in a real castle, and while it was very grand, it was also not very comfortable. Also, she now knew, mere wealth and title did not guarantee a refined experience. _If I had a country house,_ she thought, giving free rein to her imagination, _I would open it to all sorts of clever, interesting people. The only person I really enjoyed visiting with here was the Maestro, and I already know him. I'd invite painters and poets and philosophers, and perhaps we would read plays and the newest books. I would have the very best musicians, and no one would be allowed to chatter while they were performing. It wouldn't be all this dull sporting talk and society gossip. _

Not that it had been all bad, of course. She had enjoyed learning to ride, but she would have enjoyed it more in better company. Her sister's unhappiness weighed on her, spoiling the visit. If _she_ were the hostess, she would make certain that all the guests got on, and that no one was made unhappy_. I would try not to make people do things they had rather not, just because I thought it would amuse me. _ No matter: in a few hours they would be back in London, and she would be back in her pretty blue room. Perhaps they could go to the booksellers. Letty had won a few pounds at the card tables, and wanted to add to her slender library. _I shall practice more on the harp, too. I was too embarrassed to touch the instrument here with Lady Sattersby nearby. _She would prefer not to see that lady again, in fact. She had hurt her sister, and led the Colonel astray, and Letty considered her a bad, selfish woman.

There was no escaping her, though. Jane had wanted to call the carriage for seven, but her suggestion had been scouted by the Earl himself, who would not hear of Mrs. Tavington leaving so early and missing the company of his other guests at breakfast. Jane was informed that her carriage would be at the door at ten, which would give them all plenty of time for a good hearty breakfast and a pleasant family chat.

Jane had still risen early, fed the baby, discussed the plans with Moll, and had set Pullen to work packing. When the carriage finally made its appearance, they would not waste a moment in leaving. The Earl had given broad hints to everyone that they ought to be present. Even Sir John was there, looking grim and heavy-headed after a great deal of brandy the night before. Jane's brother-in-law said little, and ate less. He drank endless cups of strong tea, and growled something unintelligible in response to Lady Trumfleet's observations about the fine day before them. Jane wished she were a man, and could growl at people, too. But she must not, even though she thought this breakfast as greasy and lukewarm as every breakfast at Colneford Castle had been.

To add to her aggravation, Lady Sattersby made a point of sitting next to her, whispering confidences, and touching her hand in an affectionate manner. It was the harshest test of her manners that Jane had ever faced. She wanted nothing so much as for this woman to leave her alone. Jane refused to look at Tavington, lest she see him watching with smug approval and lose control of herself. A wise decision, for at that very moment, Tavington was looking approvingly at Jane, grateful for her forbearance.

It would be better if she were a little warmer with Kitty, he thought, but he must not ask too much. Jane was behaving very properly: her manner calm and well-bred. Someone who did not know her might think that her customary demeanour. His uncle, for example.

"Nice little wife you have, my boy," Lord Colchester declared to his nephew, all too audibly. "Quiet and unassuming. You should encourage her to talk more: Kitty quite puts her in the shade. Some might think differently, but I find her accent very—quaint. Can't help her looks, of course, but a bit more spirit would become her. I daresay she's a little abashed, seeing all this after living in the Colonies. Give her time."

Jane was forced to take deep breaths and remind herself that the Earl was well-meaning. Well-meaning or not, however, his patronizing remarks enraged her. She felt her face grow hot, and she started up from the breakfast table almost violently. "Heavens! Look at the time! And I still have so much to do!" She managed to turn her back to them and hurry from the room before the tears that burned in her eyes could overflow and humiliate her more. She found her way back to her room to see that Pullen had finished packing for both her ladies, and was herself ready to depart. After the last of her preparations, Jane decided to go down to the Hall with her maid and read until the blessed hour of release.

She was glad to hear Tom and Moll coming down the stairs, talking very quietly. Moll had the baby, and watched her step as she descended. Tom had Moll's small trunk and the long bundle that only the Tavington household knew was Moll's beloved musket. Jane found a creaky chair and watched the minutes tick away on the ornate Dutch clock. Letty joined her soon, already wrapped in her cloak. There were only ten minutes to get through. They were to have no peace, however. The house party emerged from the breakfast parlor by twos and threes, converging on the departing guests.

The Earl bowed and made lavish compliments, which Jane found intolerable after hearing his real opinion less than an hour before. Nonetheless, she and Letty smiled and curtseyed demurely. Lady Trumfleet shook hands, with a hint of amusement. Jane returned a faint sneer, which startled Tavington's cousin. She had not thought the Colonial girl to have had so much spirit. Lady Sattersby's friendly effusions were met with words that were perfectly polite and perfectly insincere. The two younger lords were more casual in their farewells, which was a relief. Jane briefly met Lord Sattersby's eye, searching for any acknowledgement, any hint of fellow-feeling, but found nothing but a blank wall of indifferent civility.

Sir John bowed courteously to them both. "Ladies, a safe and pleasant journey. I hope to find you well when we return later in the week. Perhaps Will shall be able to join you for that concert after all."

"Well," replied Tavington, grimacing uneasily at John's suggestion, "I think it unlikely, but we shall hope for the best." He kissed Jane's hand. "My dear, Godspeed to you. Dear sister, your servant."

Jane did not trust herself to speak to him. She merely gave him a grave nod, and then she and Letty curtseyed to the party in their turn. The coachman was drawing rein before the front steps, the sweetest sound in all the world. Jane said, "Lord Colchester, I thank you for your gracious hospitality. Lord and Lady Trumfleet, Lord and Lady Sattersby: I shall never forget this visit. My dear brother," she said to John, "Until we meet again."

Uncomfortable with the stiff formality of their departure, Letty blurted out, "Thank you, my lord, for your generosity. I did so enjoy the music and the horseback ride. I am very grateful for all the trouble you took to devise entertainments for us." She blushed and added, "Farewell to you all."

Jane was already turning away, eager to escape, and Letty followed in her sister's train. The servants had stowed everything away with tremendous dispatch, and within minutes, they were rolling away, giving the obligatory waves, and then settling back against the cushions with sentiments ranging from relief, to resentment, to anticipation at seeing London again.

-----

Gradually, Jane became aware of a hollow, starved feeling. William Francis had alerted her to the sensation, with his enjoyment of his own elevenses. After two hours, bumping along in the coach, she considered their coming arrival in London. Lady Cecily always dined fashionably late. Even with afternoon tea, she was in for a long wait. Sulking over her breakfast had had definite repercussions.

"I think I would like to stop and have a meal somewhere," she announced to the other women in the coach. "Letty, would you mind if we found an inn along the way and stopped? I hardly ate any breakfast, and I'm dreadfully hungry."

"No—of course, if you are hungry. That could be pleasant. We shall stop and have a pleasant meal in a private room. It will be good for all of us." Letty was a little alarmed at Jane's pale, strained face. "You'll feel better after you eat. The sausages at the Castle were rather—horrible."

Jane gave a faint snort. "It seems that's the way Lord Colchester likes them. He ate enough of them." Sufficiently distant from the sight, she could even smile.

Moll leaned out of the window and shouted up at their new coachman, "Scoggins! Ho there! Mrs. Tavington wants to find an inn!" Scoggins reined in and pulled the chaise to a halt. He climbed down from his box to hear his what his mistress ordered. Tom jumped down from the back, grinning at Moll, stretching cramped muscles.

Jane asked, "Do you know of any good inns along this road, Scoggins? Somewhere to find a decent meal?"

The coachman scratched his head. "Well, ma'am, we would ha' done better to stop in Chelmsford, but the Bell is a fair coaching inn, two miles or so further on down the road. Mind you, 'tis not the equal of the King's Head in Chelmsford, but I've been there, and the food is good enough."

Tom volunteered, "P'raps we should turn about and go to Chelmsford. This stretch of road is none too safe."

"Aye, the Carver brothers have struck hereabouts, but the ladies should be safe enough at the Bell, with all the folk about. Be a shame to lose six miles."

Jane hated it when men started talking to one another as if her opinion did not matter. "Yes, Scoggins, we do want to reach London as soon as possible. We will go to the Bell."

Letty asked anxiously, "Who are the Carver brothers?"

"Pair of highwaymen, miss, 'gentlemen of the road,' they call themselves—robbers and bandits, I call 'em. Two brothers, working the road together. We don't want to cross their path, I can tell you."

Moll growled, "They don't want to cross _me,_ either, the villains!"

"I daresay not," laughed Jane. "Enough. Let us go to the Bell and we'll all have something to eat!"

Cheered at the prospect, the men took their posts and they headed swiftly down the tree-lined road. In less than a quarter hour, they arrived at a bustling establishment and were greeted effusively by the landlord.

"A private room for the ladies and their maidservants!" Tom demanded, shouldering his way past the ostlers. He handed the coach's occupants down and saw them safely into the inn. A little private parlor welcomed the four women, with a cozy fire and some good, simple fare. In all honesty, it was only marginally better than the breakfast at the castle, but Jane felt more comfortable here, and the food was more to her taste. No one at the little table would demean her or harass her. Even Pullen, the least known of her companions, had so far shown herself trustworthy. She hoped the two men were faring as well downstairs in the common room. There was a dressed cucumber, and some clear soup, and some tender roast goose. The apple dumplings were delicious. Jane savored hers slowly, wanting to enjoy the peace of the little parlor as long as possible.

"It's right nice, sometimes, not to have men hanging around, scrounging the best cuts of meat," Moll observed, spooning gravy over an impressive hill of buttered turnips.

"_Very_ nice, today," Jane added.

Letty smiled and said nothing, but Pullen muttered, "You could sink the whole lot of them in the Thames, and we'd all be better off."

At the moment, Jane agreed, though Pullen's bitterness surprised her, and roused her curiosity.

Moll shook her head. "I like men, mostly. I reckon you've sworn off them, being as you went to that Magdalen place."

Letty said kindly, "You don't have to tell us anything, Pullen—"

Her fork poised in the air, Pullen made an odd face, and said, "I don't mind, Miss, seeing 'tis just ourselves." She looked at Jane for permission.

Jane thought she would never have a better chance to hear her maid's story. "If it eases you to talk about it, Pullen. Nothing you say will leave this room."

"Well, then, ma'am," the young woman began, "'tis as I said before to you. I hate it when men deceive women. My own mother was cruelly betrayed by a gentleman—a clerk in the City, he was—who promised to wed her and take all of us in as his own."

Jane refrained from smiling at Pullen's description of a clerk as a 'gentleman.' "I take it he did not keep his word in marrying her."

"Oh, that! He took her as wife, right enough, but afterwards, he rid himself of the lot of us--sent my two brothers to sea, though they were naught but eight and eleven. I was put out into service—given to a clergyman's family, and at ten I found it a heavy thing to leave my mother and see her no more."

"You never saw her again?" asked Letty, feeling very sorry for Pullen.

"Never, Miss, for she died less than a twelvemonth after. Nor have I ever seen my brothers, nor heard word of them. I jogged along well enough with Mr. Heyward and his family for some time. They considered me a kind of apprentice maidservant, and so I had no wages, but I had clothes and food, and a bed I shared with two other maids. When I turned twenty, they began paying me a bit, and I thought myself well situated, but that black day came—" she broke off, frowning.

"A black day?" prompted Moll, wanting to know the worst at once.

"Mr. Heyward's younger brother came to stop with us. He was to be a lawyer, and Mr. Heyward's house was convenient for his learning. Not so handsome as some—not a patch on the Colonel, if you'll forgive my boldness, ma'am—but 'twere no matter. He was one for taking what he wanted—" she gave a snort. "Aye, he took me without a by-your-leave one morning, as I cleaned his bedchamber. I thought I would smother with the pillow over my face. He told me I'd be turned away as a thief if I told anyone. Then he left me and went off to his breakfast, and never looked my way again."

"Did not your master provide for you when your condition became apparent?"

"That he did not, Mrs. Tavington. For when Cook winkled the truth out of me, the gentleman claimed he had never known me, and that I was a common trull, and the sport of the whole street. I was put out out the door with nowhere to go. There I was, alone that first night, and I was set upon by a gang of villains, who used me vilely, and beat me so I lay senseless in the street. When I came to myself, my little bundle of clothes and money was gone."

"How did you make shift to live?" asked Jane, utterly appalled.

Pullen smiled sourly. "By becoming what young Mr. Heyward had accused me of being. I had nothing to sell but myself, and so I did. I fell in with some others of the same sort—you'd be surprised to know how many of London's harlots are honest servants turned out of their places by the wickedness of their masters. But it was that or starve."

Moll remembered some of the women who had followed the army, who made good marriages in spite of their former trade. "Surely it ain't all bad. Some of the fellows must have been decent enough."

Pullen looked at Moll as if she had lost her mind. "Some of them didn't beat me or steal my money, if that's what you mean. At least I have sense enough never to marry one of those liars. I wouldn't bear all that again for a hundred pounds!"

Jane and Letty were impressed by her fervor. Moll looked at her pityingly, feeling very sad that Pullen had never known one of life's greatest joys. She only said, "So you found that Magdalen place, and they took you in."

"Not right away. They don't want women with child."

"What happened to your baby?" Jane asked, fearing the truth.

""Twere born early and dead. Some fellow was rough on me, one night—beg pardon, Miss. Afterwards I no longer felt it quick in me. Little crumpled-up thing it was when it came out a bit later. One of the other girls took it away, and said she put it in an old bandbox, and buried it in a freshly-dug grave in a churchyard. Don't know if she told me true. More like she threw it out in the midden. Anyway, that was that. I didn't want to die, and I'd seen enough by then to know I'd never make it though the winter on gin and the butcher's scraps. Most of the girls only survive two or three years at most. I went to the Magdalen, and the matron was a fair-minded woman. There were all sorts of girls there--even some young ladies. The matron gave us decent grey gowns, and two pints of beer a day, and better food that I had at Mr. Heyward's. I learned fine needlework there, and hairdressing, and I'm most beholden to the charitable folk who run the place."

"And you met Miss Penelope Tavington, there, I presume."

"Oh, yes! Miss Penelope is a kind lady. She comes to the chapel services there sometimes. Lots of the quality do. You even see gentlemen there often, looking the girls over and sniggering. I saw young Mr. Heyward there a time or two with his friends, but he didn't remember me. Anyway, I like to think that maybe when Mr. Heyward loses enough of his maidservants, he might believe them when they tell him about his brother. I hope so. So that's my story, and a sorry one it is. I'm most obliged to be in your household, Ma'am—and Miss. I know when I'm well off. You'll never hear of me walking out with the men of a Sunday!"

"I imagine not, Pullen," Jane replied, feeling angry at all men on her maid's account.

-----

Down below, the menservants, happily ignorant of the wrath being directed at their sex, nursed their pints and downed their portions of bread and cheese and roast beef with gusto. Scoggins went out briefly to check the harness, and chatted with a few of the hangers-on about the place. It was a fine day, and he was proud of his new position with a gentleman's family. He boasted of their connection with his lordship the Earl of Colchester. "The mistress is just coming back from a stay with the man himself," he declared. "I couldn't be drivin' a better family, save his Blessed Majesty's."

"Rich, I reckon," a new acquaintance supposed. His companion was equally full of respectful curiosity. "No end of silks and jewels, from the look of them."

"No end at alll," confirmed Scoggins. "A finer pair of ladies you'll never see."

"And travelling all by themselves—"

"With a baby!"

"You'd do well to look after your mistress," the taller of the men advised Scoggins. "Unprotected ladies and all. You'd best keep your eyes open on the London road."

Scoggins laughed. "That I'll do!" He was satisfied that the team and harness were in proper order, and went back inside for another pint with Tom. His companions smirked, and sought their own horses.

-----

They had not left the inn three miles behind them, when a pair of riders trotted out from the woods to their left. Jane was lost in her thoughts, angry with her husband again. She did not know they were in danger until she heard the shout. Moll, however, had been on the watch, and was already scrambling under the coach seat for her musket.

"Letty, hold the baby!" she hissed, too hurried for titles.

A split-second later, they heard the words that every traveler dreaded. "Stand and deliver!"

Jane felt her hair prickle with a thrill of terror. Immediately, she dropped to the floor, scrambling for her own wooden box. The latch stuck, and she cut her finger, fumbling with it. In another moment, she had her pistol in her hand.

Scoggins was reining in, crying, "Don't shoot! There are women in the coach!"

His protests were greeted with knowing snickers. Jane looked out cautiously and saw the two men, their faces muffled, pistols trained on her driver and her footman. The bigger man called, "Aye, young women and a sweet little child! We wouldn't dream of hurting such—if you mind what we say! You ladies in there, come out! Step on down quiet now. You—fellow! Let down the stairs and let's have a look at the catch!"

Tom reluctantly jumped down from the back, and took his time walking over to the folding steps.

Jane looked at Moll, who whispered, "If they don't drop their weapons right away, you shoot and shoot straight." She pulled her musket from its wrappings, took a deep breath, and gave Jane a nod. Letty, the baby in her arms, sank trembling to the floor of the coach. Pullen, with a wild look, dropped her sewing and followed her example. Moll flicked her musket up, taking aim, while Jane gripped her pistol with both hands, pointing it at the smaller of the two men. "Drop you weapons or you're dead!" Moll roared.

The Carver brothers had met resistance before, but never from women. Dick Carver, sitting smugly behind his brother Sam, made a foolish mistake. He stared, jaw dropped, at the sight of a furious fine lady aiming a pistol at him, and thus he looked away from an equally furious footman, who made a mighty leap at Dick and seized him about the waist, trying to pull him down from his horse. Startled, Dick fired wildly, and his shot went into the treetops. His horse shied and slammed against his brother's. Jane waited for her chance, but dared not shoot for fear of hitting Tom.

"You bloody bitches!" snarled Sam Carver. He saw a musket poking out of the coach window, and fired his pistol at it. Another mistake. The weapon was knocked aside by his brother's arm, as he lurched against his brother. The ball grazed Dick's ear. The younger Carver screamed and dropped his pistol. His horse shimmied in a tight circle, knocking Tom aside.

Moll's field of fire was clear, but in the confusion a perfect shot was impossible. No matter. A thunderclap, and a tang of rotten eggs. The musket kicked back against Moll's steady shoulder, and Sam Carver howled from the agony of a bullet in the flesh above his hip. Little William Francis shrieked, his ears hurting from the terrible noise. Pullen sobbed out a prayer. Letty made not a sound, but shook with fear as she tried to comfort the baby, clutching him close.

Dick reached with his unhurt arm to support his brother, and wailed in horror, "You've shot him, you filthy whores! You shot my brother!"

His injured indignation pushed Jane over the edge. She leaned out of the window, waving her pistol like a madwoman. "I'll shoot you dead, you devils! Run for you worthless lives!" Jane shrieked, white-hot wrath spilling out of her. She had had just a little more than enough of arrogant men on horseback. Her finger twitched on the trigger, longing to fire at the villains. "I'll kill you! I'll kill you!" Moll was trying to reload in the cramped quarters. Jane's pistol held their last shot, and she dared not waste it. "Tom," Jane shouted, "move aside! I'm going to shoot that dirty dog!" The sensible Tom darted aside nimbly, but the Carvers were already spurring away, disappearing into the trees. Jane screamed again in frustration, and fired after them, wishing them dead. The pistol shot filled her with exhilaration. "Dirty cowards! You come back here so I can kill you! You'll hang for this! Dirty, dirty cowards!"

Moll had reloaded, and was ready if the highwaymen returned, but she decided that was unlikely. She put a hand out to pull Jane back into the coach. "It's all right, ma'am: they're gone. We did for them good and proper! You, Tom! Get their pistols! I reckon they're ours now."

"Yes, Tom!" Jane agreed, rather drunk with excitement and anger. "The spoils of war! Dirty cowards!" she shouted again, waving her discharged pistol a last time. Coming to herself, she set the weapon down beside her and reached out to take her crying baby. "Oh, my poor boy! I'm sorry there was such an awful noise! We'll kill those bad men dead if they ever come back! Yes, we will!"

Scoggins was down from the coachman's box, and was staring white-faced into the coach. "Mrs. Tavington! Are you all right, ma'am?"

Jane laughed, a little hysterically, "Yes, Scoggins, quite all right. Better than the robbers!"

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I was unarmed and didn't want the villains to hurt you—"

Jane tried to calm down. "That's perfectly all right, Scoggins. You did well to stay where you were and keep the horses from bolting. No weapon?" She remembered Silas and the roar of his fowling piece. "Here, Tom, give him one of the pistols and take the other for yourself! They are yours to keep. When we get back to London I shall buy powder and shot for you both. I should have thought of it before." She was coming down from her rage, and felt rather shaky. "Scoggins, take us away from this place! I think those robbers will be licking their wounds for some time, but I don't want to find out if they have friends."

Moll grunted her approval and flashed a smile at Tom, who grinned back, selecting the better of the two pistols for himself. The footman dusted himself off, straightened his wig, and jumped back to his post on the back of the coach, holding on to the handgrips. Scoggins climbed wearily back into his box, and sat unmoving for a moment, sick with the realization that he might have betrayed his new family unwittingly. They were very lucky that no worse had happened. No, they were lucky that the mistress and Moll Royston were odd enough, mad enough, to be traveling armed. He shook his head, determined to watch his tongue in the future. They must be off now, and no harm done. He flicked the reins at his team.

Inside the coach, the baby's wails gradually subsided. Jane quieted down, beginning to feel strangely sleepy. Letty slid back into her seat, murmuring, "Thank God we are all safe."

Pullen said nothing at all, gaping at her mistress and the nursemaid as if they were mythical beasts of uncertain reliability.

Moll, for her part, was pleased at how the skirmish had played out. Who would have thought that Mrs. Tavington would have carried on so, like a young ensign in his first battle? The sight brought back some fond memories. Some young soldiers went right wild their first time. It had gone pretty well. The outlaws had been wounded and driven off, which in her opinion was the best outcome possible. If they had been merely scared away, they might have rallied and laid in wait further up the road. If one of both had actually been killed, there would have been questions and possible accusations. There was no knowing what friends those fellows might have in the neighborhood, and Mrs. Tavington was unknown here. Better to fight them off and get on back to town. She kept an eye on the road, however, for the next hour, until they reached the outskirts of London, and Moll felt they were completely out of danger.

It was mid-afternoon by the time they finally halted by the door of Number 12, Mortimer Square. Jane had awakened from a nap to hear the sounds of the street-vendors crying their lavender and apples, their fish and ribbons. It was the daily carnival of London life, but today she felt as if it were a triumphant welcome home. She had never felt so in command of her life before. She swept into the house with air of a victorious general, and for a little while, nothing a silly, spiteful mother-in-law might say could touch her. The women followed her, all happy at the prospect of a wash and a rest. The men unloaded the coach, and had quite a tale to tell the other servants who came out to help.

"--Young Mrs. Tavington? She threatened them with a pistol?"

"—You should have seen her? Like a Fury, she was!"

"—Let us keep their pistols, as spoils of war, like!"

"--Mrs. Royston shot one of them with her musket?"

"--Was it really the Carver brothers?"

"--Oh, my! I must tell my sister!"

-----

Two days later, the thrilling news had found its way into the _Morning Post. _

_"Mrs. T-------n, newly arrived from the tropical climes of Carolina, proved a worthy partner of the famed Colonel T-------n, of whose exploits in America the whole town speaks. No fiercer was Queen Boadicea in her chariot than Mrs. T-------n in her carriage, when set upon by highwaymen, in fact the notorious brothers Richard and Samuel Carver. Like a tigress defending her young, the lady was impelled by the tenderest maternal sentiments to draw pistol on the infamous pair, and set them to flight with the aid of her servants. Inspired by their mistress' fiery example, …"_

* * *

Thank you to all my reviewers and those who expressed support during my current computer crisis. The files have been retrieved and everything seems to be working now! 

**Next—Chapter 37: Wargrave Hall **


	37. Wargrave Hall

_I hope you enjoy the following chapter. It was fun to write. If you'd like to see pictures of Wargrave Hall, please go to my homepage and then to "My Fanfiction." Click _Tavington's Heiress_ and then scroll down past the teaser first chapter. I have posted a sample dinner course, a Reynolds portrait of Letty, and pictures of the house. Enjoy! _

**Chapter 37: Wargrave Hall **

After Jane's departure, Tavington felt himself quite at his own disposal. It was rather like being a bachelor again. He reveled in his new-found independence, at least for a little while, before recollecting that there was nothing he planned to do today that he could not have done had Jane remained at the Castle. A private walk with Kitty was out of the question: any more public contact with her would destroy her reputation. And Kitty herself was being very coy, playing the attentive wife with Sattersby. Before he had any more time to consider what he would like to do, John took the matter out of his hands. His brother was still watching the chaise and four as it passed through the archway of the keep, and then disappeared at the curve of the road. Abruptly, he said, "That's that, then. We'll be off to Wargrave now."

"Now?" Tavington had not thought about the original purpose of this trip in some time.

"Yes, _now."_ John said impatiently.

"I thought you would write a note to the steward first."

"Why would I do that?"

"He might be out on business."

"So much the better. I can snoop about with him none the wiser. I thought you were concerned that he was robbing me."

"Well—yes."

"All right. Then let's call for our horses and ride over. Unless you prefer to take the curricle."

"God, no. It's much faster to ride across country than to take the road. We should tell Uncle."

"Of course. Maybe he'd like to go along." John scowled. "Though I'd rather he didn't, just yet. I'd rather it was only the two of us. If the place is fit to be seen, we could all go over for a bit of luncheon, perhaps in a day or so."

"Come on, then."

-----

Lord Colchester was perfectly happy to let his nephews go off and enjoy themselves, when it was made clear to him the reason for the scouting expedition. The two Tavington brothers set off under a bright blue sky, galloping south west, while Jane and her party were travelling due south. Clouds scudded by quickly overhead, casting dark shadows on the familiar fields. Tavington grimaced as he rode by Greengage Cottage, cursing village Peeping Toms. But he put the thought by. It was too fair a day to linger over such foolishness.

He felt quite agitated, in a pleasant way. He was going home to Wargrave, a place that he loved and which held so many happy memories. Tavington had never been ambivalent about Wargrave. Mortimer Square was the site of family quarrels and domestic battles. Wargrave Hall was the place where he had played, and learned to shoot and to ride, where his father had been at his best, where his family had celebrated Christmas with every wonderful old English tradition. It was very agreeable to be on horseback, going to Wargrave, and to be in his brother's company. He had missed John more than he realized. There was something about being with the one man who had known him all his life, and who understood him in a way that no one else ever could. John was a damned good brother after all, and Tavington, in his turn, felt that his own company could benefit John. _Perhaps he won't spend every night drinking and gambling. Or if he does, he'll be with me and we can look after each other. _

A country lane cut across their path ahead, a brown ribbon amongst the green trees. A hay wagon was trundling slowly along, and the two horseman darted out well in front of it. Further on, the ground sloped down as they approached the river; and they found without conscious thought the ford used for centuries by their ancestors. John grinned at him, no doubt remembering the times they had splashed one another here, roughhousing like bear cubs in the chilly water. The horses gathered themselves, clambering up the other bank, and Tavington saw the first building that belonged to _home:_ an old mill that had operated since the fourteenth century. The miller waved, a sturdy man with brown hair tied neatly back. Tavington was surprised at how young Miller Upton looked, until he realized that this was Rob Upton, the son of Old Miller Upton, and a former playfellow of his youth. A pair of brown-haired boys—certainly Rob's sons--were unloading sacks of grain under their father's direction. Tavington wondered at how time had passed, and waved back to them.

The hunter between his legs cantered in an easy gait that ate up the miles. It was not long before they found the lane—hardly a road—that led to Wargrave Cross. Tavington now recognized more of the farmers and cottagers along their path, and was recognized in his turn—more and more often as they drew closer to the family estate. They passed through orchards, ducking under the low branches, and John gave a shout.

"There's the hill! We're nearly there!"

Old Wargrave Hill, green and mysterious, loomed up, hiding the village of Wargrave Cross until they could skirt its edge. Years ago, Mamma had suggested building a Grecian temple on it, but Papa, thank God, had never had the necessary funds. Tavington liked the hill as it was, littered with old stone and crumbling crossbeams, full of secrets and oddments, the remains of the series of ancient fortresses that had lived and died on the site. In a flash of imagination, he saw himself taking his own son up there for a treasure hunt. _William Francis was running about, digging through the rubble, calling out in his high, sweet, boy's voice as he found something that he must show his father— _

Tavington smiled, feeling quite happy and pleasantly nostalgic. The single thoroughfare of the village was before them, leading through the cottages and little chandler shops toward the church and its walled churchyard. He must remember to take a look at the vicarage while he was here. Best to know the worst at once.

The villagers were coming out to see them, men and women flowing out of doors in wayward streams. They lined the sides of the little dirt lane, bowing and bobbing. The men removed their hats, except for one gangling youth, who was slow enough that his father removed it for him by boxing his ears.

"—Show some respect, boy!"

"--'Tis Sir John!"

"--Who's that with him?"

"—'Tis Captain William, the younger son…"

"--I know him! He thrashed me when we were lads! Fine-looking fellow, ain't he?"

The respectful murmurs followed them down the lane, and were abruptly punctuated by shrill cries as a knot of small boys came pounding up to see the show.

"Hurrah!" one shrilled, jumping up and down, trying to see past the taller folk. "Hurrah! Hurrah!" halloed the rest. John grinned and waved.

Tavington scowled at the boys in mock reproof, and growled, "Shouldn't you lot be in school?"

"--School?" The little boys wondered among themselves, and then fell back to jumping up and down and shouting, "Hurrah!"

Happy as he was to be back, Tavington could not help but notice how shabby everything looked. The cottages were in bad repair, the lane a rutted mudslick. As they approached the church, he could see that the stonework was worn and the vicarage garden was overgrown with weeds. The house itself, he was relieved to see, still looked like a gentleman's residence, but it had that air of desolation that all abandoned houses assume in time. Down its own lane, the steward's lodge, though smaller than the vicarage, looked far better—or at least lived in. Tavington frowned more darkly. The steward, no doubt, was a rogue, but John was partly culpable, at least. The estate was his, and the responsibility for his tenants was ultimately his. He had not been here in years. He began to look more carefully at the village and its people, and saw much amiss. And why were those noisy little boys not in school? The parish school had been a good one, though small. He and John had never gone there themselves, of course, except for a few weeks now and then, in what amounted more to lordly visits than real attendance. The schoolmaster had been a long, dark fellow—a scholar and a firm disciplinarian. Tavington wondered if he was still here. And suddenly all such thoughts left him, for there was the wide green lawn, and Wargrave Hall stood before them.

-----

The Hall, a place that Tavington had always considered as alive as any man or woman, had the same derelict air as the vicarage. Past the low wall enclosing the unkempt inner lawn, it seemed even worse. The roses climbing along the sides of the pudding houses had taken over, their thorns barring entry to any but the bravest prince or the hardiest gardener. The windows stared blankly at the newcomers, seeming not to recognize them as old friends. No grooms came rushing out, ready to take their horses. The brothers exchanged looks, and then Tavington tossed his reins to his brother and leaped down from his horse.

Striding to the great front door, he smashed the knocker hard, iron to iron, and gave a shout. "Hello the house!" Silence. He tried the door, and found it locked. He looked back at John in exasperation.

Dryly, his brother observed, "It would seem that we are not at home."

"Bloody hell. There must be _someone_ here. Let's go around to the servants' wing."

He vaulted back into the saddle, and they ambled around the huge H-shaped country house, peering in the windows, seeing little but dust and dust covers. To the side of the house was the South Door, used by servants and tradesmen. Tavington and his brother and sisters had used it often enough themselves, to go quickly out to the gardens and to come in discreetly, when too dirty and disheveled to bear their mother's scrutiny. There was a vestibule, with a set of stairs leading down to the cellars, and a hall opening into three directions. The middle way led straight through to the baize door that let into the rest of the house. To the right, one turned toward the servants' hall that overlooked the rear lawn. To the left, one entered the vast, bustling kitchen, where they had scrounged thick slices of pudding, sitting at a big, sanded table, their small legs dangling, while their favorite of the cooks, Maggie Jeffreys, had rolled out piecrust, singing "Greensleeves," at the top of her leathery lungs. For a moment, Tavington saw her in imagination and wished fiercely that he could open the South Door and find her waiting for them, rolling pin in hand, smiling and shaking her head at their mischief.

"At least someone's about," John said, noticing the path trodden through the weeds by the door. The two men swung off their horses, and Tavington tried knocking again. There were faint sounds, and a murmur of low voices, and then a slow step approaching.

The door opened, and a bent old man hobbled out, peering up at them suspiciously. "Be off with you! We want no vagrants nor gypsies here!"

"Good Lord!" Tavington said in disbelief. "Is that Old Carter?"

The old man leaned forward, trying to make out the faces of the men before him. "Do you know me, fellow? Well, I'll tell you that this is Sir John Tavington's property, and I'll have the bailiff on you for trespassing."

"Yes, it's Carter, all right," replied John, not at all ruffled at the old man's threats. "Look here, my man, do you not recognize me? _I_ am Sir John, and this is my brother Colonel Tavington, newly returned from America. We've come to take a look at the house."

Jaw slack, cloudy eyes blinking, the servant looked from one to the other, clearly unsure of himself.

Another, quicker step sounded and an elderly servant woman appeared in the doorway. "Amos, what is it, then?" She saw the two tall, great-coated men before her and cried, "Lord love us! Sir John and Captain William!"

"That's what they said, but I'm afeared—" muttered the old man.

"Oh, hold your peace, you silly man, 'tis the Master and his brother, home from the wars! Come in, gentlemen, come in, and we'll give you cup of tea and—oh, I'm sure I don't know—yes! A bacon pasty or two, plain enough to be sure, but—"

Sharing an amused glance, the two brothers tied their horses to a rail, and followed the old couple into the servant's hall, where they submitted to the pottering-about and slow-footed coddling of family servants, delighted to see their family again. John appeared somewhat embarrassed, Tavington thought, perhaps feeling a little unworthy of so much joy at his appearance. Dutifully, they drank their sweetened tea (made exactly to their taste at twelve and eight years of age), and downed the proffered food (for it would have been heartless to have refused it), and listened to years of gossip.

"We had hoped to see the house, and speak with Porter today, but perhaps he is unavailable—" began Sir John.

"Huh!" muttered Old Carter. "Too good to speak to the likes of us! Setting up his carriage like gentlefolk and setting hours when he can see this one or that—got the big head, he does, while all falls to wrack and ruin about us!"

"Is the house--?" John began again, glaring at his brother who was trying not to laugh. Old Mrs. Carter assured him that she would take him over the house herself.

"Mind you, the stairs get steeper every year, but I'll be bound that you should see your own place! And there's the roof too, that's been needing mending these two years, and will Mr. Porter listen--?"

The old man turned his attention to Tavington. "Heard you was gone for a soldier. Gone to America—" (he pronounced it Amerikay) "--and we figgered you'd end up scalped and slaughtered by the savages."

His wife was loud in her disagreement. "Amos, you're putting words in my mouth. 'Tis you that went on about scalpings! I'm sure I never thought that Captain William would allow any to use him so! Beg pardon, sir, but you was always a strong-willed lad, and more likely to give blows than to suffer them."

Now it was John's turn to grin. Tavington shrugged. It was perfectly true, anyway.

Mrs. Carter looked to see that they had finished their tea, and gestured impatiently at her husband. "Amos, you go find Joe and have him water the gentlemen's horses. I'll take them over the house. Now you follow me, sirs. I've a mind to tell you about things as I don't like here, and you'll have to forgive some plain speaking."

Tavington enjoyed the tour. He had read that when seeing one's family home after a long absence, it often seemed smaller than remembered. That was quite untrue at Wargrave, which remained as imposing as ever. The Great Hall, with its dark paneled walls, its massive fireplace, and the wonderful white marble reliefs over the doors, was as he recalled it. Indeed, most of the ground floor, while dusty, was quite presentable—or would be with the work of some servants under the age of seventy.

Once upstairs, he frowned a little at the first floor. Obviously, no one had cleaned here in some time, and it appeared quite shabby. In the Great Chamber, the huge bedroom above the library, the paneling was warped in places. Up another staircase, he began to feel fairly alarmed. There was considerable water damage in the gallery and the old schoolroom, which Mrs. Carter said was due to the leaky roof.

"The garrets above aren't fit to live in! The abode of bats, crows, and swallows, sir! And that's last year. I daren't think how much worse they may be now! Houses are liken to teeth, and they must be seen to afore they're beyond saving!"

John was fairly glum. "I shall have to have the roof looked at. I daresay it will cost the earth."

Tavington was a little impatient with him. "It will cost a great deal less that a new house! Look here, John, if you are short of cash, I can help—"

"Hate to do that, old fellow, but I may have to borrow. If it's as bad as she says, I'll need to have it seen to before the winter."

The old woman was puffing and red-faced, and Tavington told her to sit and wait while they ran up to the garrets. It was indeed as bad as she had said, and they gazed mournfully at the sky, framed by the holes in the roof.

"Not good," John sighed. "Not good at all."

There was nothing more to be said. Obviously the damage must be mended as soon as possible, or the entire house would fall rapidly into decay. They came downstairs, resigned to a great deal of bother and expense.

"Aren't there any servants other than yourselves?" Tavington asked Mrs. Carter.

"Just us, sir, and our grandson Joe. The others left in twos and threes, when Mr. Porter stopped their wages. We haven't been paid in donkey's years, sir, but where else would we go? We make do from the kitchen garden and bartering what we can."

"I believe I must have a word with Porter," John said grimly.

Tavington asked, "We saw some boys running about. Is there a new schoolmaster? Mr. Strakes would never had tolerated such behavior on a school day."

"Bless you, sir! There ain't been a school since old Dr. Crumby departed this life. Mr. Porter and Mr. Strakes had words and then Mr. Strakes was gone, and that was the end of schooling for the parish!" She looked reproachfully at Sir John. "'Tis not proper, a good old church and no clergyman. Dr. Crumby is sorely missed."

John cleared his throat in embarrassment. "Actually, I've found you a new vicar, on my brother's recommendation."

Tavington smiled virtuously at Mrs. Carter, proud to be the good brother, for once. "He won't arrive for a few months, but I'm sure you'll find the gentleman—and his wife—most excellent people."

"Well, that's a mercy!" declared the old woman. "And they can't come a moment too soon, if you'll pardon me for saying so!"

"Is the vicarage is good condition?" Tavington asked.

"Don't rightly know, sir. 'Twas sealed up tight after the Doctor died. It should be well enough, if some vagrant has not broken in."

And so it went. They dawdled over the house, and then thanked the Carters for their kind attentions, and John gave them a guinea. The Carters exclaimed over it, fingering it curiously, hardly able to recognize the unfamiliar gold coin as money. Young Joe could hardly be distracted from admiring their fine horses, and was given some coins in his turn.

The vicarage was indeed sealed, and Tavington looked through the windows, finding nothing to overly concern him. They then rode over to the steward's lodge. Porter was not present, but that did not deter the Tavington brothers from making themselves at home in his office. They found the account books easily enough.

Indeed they found two sets of account books, and Tavington groaned at the work before him. Porter had robbed the estate—egregiously. There was hardly another word to describe it. "He should hang for this," Tavington snarled, adding up the columns of embezzlement and sharp practice.

But John was uneasy at his brother's harsh assessment. He hated confrontations, and disliked punishing others as much as he had disliked being punished as a child. And then, too, in a few moments, mild Mrs. Porter stood in the doorway to the office, wringing her hands anxiously, terribly embarrassed that her husband had not been present to greet Sir John. She was a gentle creature, and Sir John did not think she knew much about her husband's business affairs. And they had young children. He sent the woman away with a quiet word, and took a deep breath.

"The fault is at least partly mine, Will. I have been neglectful--I let him think there would be no consequences. Had he thought someone was looking over his shoulder, he might not have—"

"Oh, come, John! This has been going on—at least three years, from the look of it. And where the devil has the money gone? Not into this house, obviously. I wonder if the man is keeping a mistress in town. His family should be turned out in the hedgerows this very day."

"You've become very hard, Will."

"Well for me that I am!" Tavington responded tartly. "You don't last long in the army if you flinch from ordering floggings and hangings—not to mention inflicting various painful deaths on the enemy! But as to this Porter fellow--you're not going to let him stay on, are you?"

"If he pays full restitution, and submits to proper oversight—"

"John! At least let me giving him a good thrashing!"

His brother flashed him a smile. "Perhaps that will be part of his full restitution."

"That's more like it."

John smoked, while Tavington worked through the second set of books. Porter had made off with a considerable sum, starting bit by bit about three years ago. Admittedly, it was not quite as much as Tavington had first thought. Some of the decrease in estate income was legitimately due to bad crops and fluctuating prices. Nonetheless, Tavington was outraged at the means Porter had used to enrich himself: the wages of nonexistent servants, the funds that should have gone to the school and the relief of the poor, the money that should have been spent on maintaining the Hall and the estate cottages, and the lack of which was now evident in the dilapidations they had seen. The robbery was more outrageous in the last year, when there was no longer a parish rector to demand his rights. The other two parishes were in better order, it appeared, since each still had a clergyman in residence, who could have written to John about any questionable activity.

He had not completed his review, by any means, when they heard the sound of horse's hooves. Porter had returned. Tavington listened to the man ride in, greet the servant and then be waylaid by his wife, who was speaking to him in a low, frantic voice. There was a dead silence. The two brothers looked at each other. Tavington wondered if Porter would attempt to flee. It might be amusing to run the man down from horseback.

But he did not run. The estate steward entered the office, his eyes those of a dead man. Reluctantly, he met Sir John's stern gaze, and then promptly vomited on to the floor, clutching at his mouth futilely. Tavington rolled his eyes in disgust, as the man fell to his knees and begged for mercy.

"Sorry—sorry—have mercy, Sir John!" was the inarticulate plea. "I've been a wicked fool! Oh God! My wife!"

Tavington felt nothing but contempt. The man was sorry only to have been caught. A pity John was so soft-hearted. It would have been an object lesson to have had the man prosecuted and hanged. He would have liked to have said so, but it was John's land and money, after all.

"Pull yourself together, man!" John snapped, embarrassed at the spectacle. Porter choked and remained on his knees, trembling. Sir John's next words were ominous. "My brother here thinks that you should be hanged and your family turned out into the hedgerows. Would you consider that unjust?"

Miserably, Porter shook his head.

"I, however, am inclined to be merciful, if you can offer restitution." The terrified man looked up with desperate hope. John growled, _"What have you done with my money?_ Are you keeping a whore in town? Have you been gambling it away?_"_

"No! I swear, Sir John! Nothing like that! I've been putting a bit by, here and there—" he cowered at Tavington's angry oath. "I wanted to buy a place of my own—something for the children, you see—something for my own old age!"

"You used my money to buy _yourself_ an estate?" John asked in disbelief. "Where is it?"

"I haven't—not yet—I haven't yet signed for it," the man assured them. "I can get the money back—you'll have it all—I beg you, don't send me to prison! Think of my little ones!"

"You should have thought of them yourself, you blackguard," Tavington exploded. "My brother pays you well to look after his affairs. How much more would you have stolen? When you had your property, would you have fled and changed your name? You should die at a rope's end, like the thief you are!"

Sir John interrupted, in a soothing tone. "Can you return the entire sum at once?"

"No—I—" Defeated, the man slumped. "No. I can get most of it, though. Some of it went to buy things for Eleanor and the children. Some of it went for the carriage."

"Then it may take some time to regain my lost funds?"

"I swear I'll pay back every penny!"

"I hope for your sake that you do," John said quietly. "And you will begin at once. I hope you do not plan to take you family and flee the county, for you would certainly be found. And to what purpose? You will never get a better place than the Wargrave Estate. To leave would be to reduce your family to penury. I propose, instead, that you remain here as steward, with your books audited monthly for any improprieties. The money you intended to use to buy a house will be returned at once, and used to begin the needed repairs on the estate. Your salary shall be reduced, and that reduction counted toward your debt to me."

"It may take a little while," the man pleaded. "I must write to the agent in Cheshire."

"It had better not take too long," John said, with deadly calm. "Now listen to me. I am returning to my uncle's house, and you will order your carriage and drive back with us. I will inform Lord Colchester of our agreement—" Porter clutched his head and groaned in horror. "—of our agreement, and his own man of business and some of his trusty servants will be set to keep watch on you. The carriage and horses will remain at Colneford, just in case you try to pack up and escape. They will be sold, and the money put toward your debt."

Tavington spoke up. "The books need a more thorough review. We could take them back with us and have Protheroe—" he smirked at the wretched Porter "—our lawyer, look at them in detail. I think my brother is using you with extraordinary mercy."

"I am doing this for the sake of Mrs. Porter and your innocent children," John said. "Your good behavior is their only surety, for if you betray my trust again, they shall be ruined utterly. Are you willing to abide by my conditions, or do you wish to return with us to face trial?"

"No—no—I thank you, Sir John. I'll do anything—"

"There is one more thing," said John, catching his brother's impatient glare. "My brother feels some immediate punishment is called for. I suggest you submit to that without complaint as well. Let's us go outside somewhere private—for a smoke. You will call for the carriage now, and tell Mrs. Porter that you will be back later tonight." Porter looked around wildly.

"Get up!" Tavington barked. Catching the man by his collar, he hauled him to his feet, pushing him in front of him to avoid the soiled front of the man's waistcoat. Within two minutes, the three of them were out through the kitchen garden and had entered a little shady copse that screened them from the lodge.

"Take off your coat, Porter," Tavington said coldly. "You'll want to present a respectable appearance before my uncle." When the man fumbled too long, Tavington tore it from his shoulders impatiently.

John frowned, and sighed, and lit another cigar. "No longer than the cigar lasts, Will," he cautioned.

"Very well. That should be enough." Without warning, he slammed Porter face-first against the trunk of a tree, and purred, "Stay where you are. If you try to get away, I promise I'll make it worse." He hefted his riding crop and slashed at the terrified man's back. Porter cried out hoarsely, and fell to the ground, curled up on his knees, shielding his face. Tavington hit him again.

It was a very good cigar, and the fragrant smoke drifted slowly up through the yellowing canopy of leaves. The trees absorbed most of the noise: the heavy thuds of the crop against a human body, protected only by a thin waistcoat and a thinner shirt, the grunts of effort and of pain, the rustle of the wind, the occasional chirp of a bird above. Porter could not help crying by the end, and Tavington was flushed and vengeful, feeling that the man had deserved worse.

John ground out his cigar and declared, "Enough."

Tavington paused, wanting to give the fellow one last blow, but more would risk damaging the fellow too severely. John was right, he supposed: better to get the money back than to seek a more bloody revenge. However, he promised himself, _if the place is ever mine, Mr. Porter will be gone before he knows what he's about. _They rode back to Colneford Castle, and Porter, white-faced and bruised, was handed over to Lord Colchester's men for safe-keeping.

The Earl largely agreed with his older nephew, though he was glad enough that Will had thrashed the fellow. The affair was a welcome distraction, for after they finished making the arrangements, Lord Colchester informed his nephews that Sattersby had received word of a matter that demanded his immediate attention, and he and Kitty would be leaving on the morrow.

"Haven't the least idea what's going on. Bill is being very close-mouthed about the affair. Don't even know when he got the letter. Seems most unsettled though: nearly left this afternoon, but I told him it would be better to pack properly and take his leave in the morning. Says he must be gone before seven, and won't hear otherwise. We shall have to take our leave tonight after dinner. Anne will miss Kitty, of course, but if Bill thinks he needs to go, Kitty must certainly go with him."

Tavington felt a chill of fear at his uncle's words. Something was afoot. John raised his brows, looking a rebuke at his brother. Tavington hissed in vexation and concern, and tried to think how to find out more about what was going on. It was not difficult, actually.

As he dressed for dinner, Doggery revealed the events of the day to his master. "Quite the quarrel the young lord had with his lady, sir. Right after noon, when the earl was taking his ride around the park. Could hear them all the way down the hall. Seems someone's been telling tales. 'Course, the man as started the gossip now says there's naught to it, but his lordship weren't satisfied—not by half. Felt there was something wrong. I'm told her ladyship will be painting a trifle thicker than her usual this evening."

Tavington liked to think of himself as one who spurned servants' gossip, but this alarmed him. "He _struck_ her?"

Doggery frowned over his comb and pins. "Weren't there, was I, sir? All I knows is what I heard from her ladyship's maid, and she heard what sounded like a blow to her, and then there was her ladyship with a blue mark on her pretty face—a shame, that."

"Quite."

The dinner that followed was an odd affair. Cousin Anne kept up a merry flow of talk throughout the courses, but Kitty, very pale with cosmetics and unhappiness, said little, and then only in response to her father-in-law. Sattersby himself was as silent as usual, but now and then he would fix Tavington with a bitter, hostile glare. There was no effective way to counter this at his uncle's table, and so Tavington turned his eyes away and discussed plans for repairs at Wargrave Hall with John. Trumfleet was surprisingly conversable on the subject, and added his own experiences as master of a large estate. The inadequacies of workmen, the stupidities of servants, the scandalous cost of building materials were all canvassed in detail. Lord Colchester himself was full of advice and eager to help, hoping that his nephew would spend more time on his estate, giving the earl himself a welcome neighbor and more frequent companion.

"I'd hoped to invite you all for luncheon," John told them, "but it's quite impossible, with the Hall in its current state. Perhaps next year."

"Capital!" boomed Lord Colchester. "It would be a great joy, to see that fine old place restored. And you've never seen it at all, have you, Kitty? You must be among the first visitors."

Kitty whispered, "I'm sure that would be delightful. Perhaps—"

Sattersby broke in, with a cool smile, "We shall see. Our own property keeps us very occupied." He pinned Tavington with another hateful glance, sipping his wine with a vengeful air.

It was painfully distressing. Tavington felt very sorry for Kitty, and very guilty at having caused trouble for her. She seemed to him as sweet and beautiful as ever, but overwhelmed with anxiety. Tomorrow she would be journeying home, facing an uncertain future with a husband who was clearly displeased with her. Tavington wished fiercely to spend a last night with her, but it seemed impossible. Sattersby would be on the watch, and the servants possibly employed to spy upon her. The distance between their rooms was not great, however, and if he were able to get a word with her---

But that was becoming less likely, too. The ladies withdrew, and the gentlemen sat long over their wine. Trumfleet and John drank so much that the sideboards were opened for the discreet chamberpots. There was more talk about Wargrave, and Tavington was quizzed about his clergyman friend. Afterwards, he and John walked unsteadily to the study with their uncle, and the unpleasantness of Porter was dealt with. He was sent home in one of Lord Colchester's carriages, along with Mr. Somerville, Lord Colchester's own steward, and six stout grooms and footmen. Somerville would stay a few days, and get the situation in hand. Sir John and Tavington would visit the estate again on the morrow for further consultation. Porter sat slumped throughout, looking like a whipped dog.

At last they made their way to the drawing room, to find Trumfleet snoring in a chair, his lady tinkling out a tune on the harpsichord, and Lord and Lady Sattersby sitting and looking at one another in silence. Kitty's posture was defensive and frightened, and Sattersby's was relaxed but watchful. He was looking at her--just looking at her--like a cat at a mouse hole. Tavington wanted to do something—anything—to defend her, but short of snatching her up and running away, he could think of nothing effective. He could hardly insult his uncle by calling Sattersby out. Besides, he had to admit, it was not he, but Sattersby, who was the injured party.

"Ah, that's very nice, my dear Anne," declared Lord Colchester. "Play for us while we have a game or two. And then you too, Kitty. I shall miss the sound of your harp when you are in Dorset."

A table was arranged, and the Earl was soon playing cards with his son and nephews, happily oblivious to the currents of ill-feeling swirling about the room. To him, it was a pleasant evening in the country, surrounded by his beloved family. An hour passed, and another. Kitty dutifully played three airs, and was told by her husband to go to bed, as they were leaving early. Without a protest, she bade them all a very gentle farewell, not even daring to look at Tavington, and took herself off. Lady Trumfleet followed soon after, leaving her lord and master still unconscious and drooling in his armchair of silk brocade.

Distracted as he was, Tavington played badly, to John's annoyance and Sattersby's great satisfaction. Thirty guineas was a substantial sum to lose, and he wished he could throw it in Sattersby's smirking face. Instead, he gathered the rags of his good breeding about him, and paid his debt like a gentleman. _Besides,_ he comforted himself, _if Sattersby feels he's gotten the better of me, perhaps he won't be so hard on poor Kitty. _He watched his cousin stalk out of the room, smugly triumphant, and shrugged when John looked at him as if to say, _"What else can you expect?" _Their uncle charitably woke Trumfleet, and sent him staggering off to his bed, but seemed inclined for more talk himself. There was nothing for it, but to sit and chat with the old man, who, after all, deserved every sign of respect.

By the time he returned to his room, the great clock had chimed two, and Doggery was dozing in a little chair by the door. He rubbed his eyes and helped Tavington out of his clothes without unwelcome conversation, except to remark, with suspicious casualness, "I wish you a sound rest in your own bed, sir. It wouldn't be a good night for wandering, seeing as Lord Sattersby is in his Lady's bedchamber and might take a visitor amiss. Not that anything of the sort might happen but by accident--but you know, it wouldn't do to give the wrong idea, especially if his lordship were to be a little on edge, to the extent of sleeping with a pistol by his side, that just _might_ go off if he were to be startled --but that won't be happening, anyhow, now will it. sir?"

Exhausted, Tavington replied, "I daresay not."

"Then I bid you a good night, sir. And if I might say so, I shall sleep the better having given a word to the wise, as they say."

"Get out, Doggery."

"Very good, sir."

-----

His eyes opened, and by his watch it was nearly six. Tavington listened to the sounds of the trunks being carried downstairs, the quiet conversation—Kitty's sweet voice, now very subdued. He lay still, until he knew they were downstairs, and then got up and threw on his banyan, and stood at the window facing the courtyard. The time was measured in his imagination. _Now Kitty is having breakfast: she is stirring her tea; she is cracking her egg with two little taps. She likes the French bread best, and is spreading some marmalade upon it. She is taking her time sipping her tea. Kitty's hands are very smooth and delicate. Her mouth is lovely as she drinks from her cup. Is she thinking of me?_

So this was love? If so, it was a very disagreeable sensation, for he might not see Kitty again for some time and felt very distressed by the idea. What fools Time had made of them! If only Kitty were one year younger—or six years older! That would have indeed been better. For her he would have defied Mamma's displeasure. If he had known her before he left for America he might never have gone at all. He could have married Kitty and shared her splendid home with her.

But would that have happened? An unpleasantly rational voice sounded in his head, a voice very like Jane's at her most practical. Would Kitty have married him, penniless as he had been in 1775? St. Leger had spoken of her as one who had an eye to an eldest son. Would her family have countenanced a match with him? In their eyes, he would have seemed a mere adventurer—a fortune-hunter. _And they would have been right. _

At length the Sattersbys appeared. Kitty walked gracefully out the front door below, her hand on her husband's arm. _He_ seemed to be behaving courteously enough: helping her into the waiting carriage, speaking quietly to the servants about her comfort, and then turning to bow to an unseen person in the great doorway—probably his father. Tavington did not bother to look more at his cousin. His eyes were on Kitty, trying to fix in memory every detail of the exquisite profile, pure as a cameo, that was turned his way. He scowled as his cousin climbed into the coach, blocking Kitty from view. In another moment, the coach drove away, and Tavington was left, unseen at his upstairs window, feeling wretchedly bereft.

-----

"Are you moping, Will?" John asked. "It does not become you."

Tavington growled and shrugged. They had spent two more days working on the Wargrave Problem, and his mood had not improved. Had he not had a worthy occupation, he would have been miserable, but there was much to do. On his uncle's recommendation, John had written to a respected builder in Colchester, who could undertake the needed repairs to the roof and the damaged walls, which the brothers had agreed were the most pressing concern. Under Somerville's watchful eye, Porter would do his part, first writing to his house agent in Cheshire about his change of plans; and then engaging servants to clean the Hall and making notes as to the cottages most in need of attention. There were the tenant farmers to talk to, there was the abandoned church to visit. Tavington had nearly two hundred pounds with him—less the money he had lost at cards—and lent it all to John, to help get the work accomplished as quickly as possible. Wargrave's gardens were a shadow of their former glory, but it was too late in the year to do much to retrieve them. Tavington rounded up some local men to clear away rubbish and weeds, so at least whatever did return the following spring might have room to grow.

"I've set some of the men to clear out the stables," Tavington remarked. "If not quite a labor of Hercules, it is very near one. There will be room right away at least for our horses, and a place to protect the curricle. The carriage house is near to collapse. Someone has been stealing the lumber from it—probably to repair his own cottage, I suppose."

"We'll want room for your carriage, too," John considered. "I really do want Mrs. Tavington and her sister to see the place. I was disappointed when we could not take them there earlier, but perhaps that was all for the best. They would have thought me the worst landlord in England had they seen it as it is now."

"Jane would probably be delighted to help. She's not easily intimidated by mere work. When she came out to the backcountry to nurse me, we were billeted in a little cabin that was no bigger than some of the cottages—and not as comfortable. She made the best of it, I must say, and showed a great deal of spirit and resource."

"Then you are a lucky man, Will," his brother told him with some heat. "I would have you consider how other ladies of our acquaintance would face such privations."

He did not have to specify. Mamma would have wasted every waking hour in complaints, and expected everything to be done for her. Caro and Pen might well have wilted. And Kitty—well, he was not sure. Kitty was not a coward, and might have borne it all without repining, but he doubted that she could have coped with the drudgery of housekeeping with any of Jane's aplomb. But Lucy—

Yes, Lucy would have done well. He thought of his sister with admiration. Reduced to a way of living that his family scorned, she had made a charming home of that mean little dwelling on Tudor Street. She could have faced the backcountry along with Jane. The two of them were well on the way to becoming friends. Lucy liked Jane very much, and—

And Tavington felt uncomfortable, recalling how shabbily he had treated his wife in the past few days. He hoped Jane would say nothing of it to his sisters. They would not understand, and would be ashamed of him. Lucy might understand, if he explained that he was in love with Kitty.

No. Lucy would _not_ understand. She would point out that he had no business being in love with Kitty, or indeed any woman other than his wife. Being a woman herself, no doubt she had unreasonable expectations regarding male fidelity. If he told her he loved his cousin's wife, she would be horrified. For that matter, John, his own brother, did not seem to understand him. He wondered if John had ever been in love. Some night, when they were both very drunk, he might ask him.

And so the days had passed—a great deal of work, followed by quiet evenings at home with their uncle. Within the week, they could feel that the process had been put on a solid footing, and John was beginning to talk about returning to London. There was little reason not to, if he so pleased. It was less than a day's drive, and one or the other of them could make the trip at any time.

Over their wine, John said as much. "I told them that I want the Great Chamber to be ready on a moment's notice, and two other bedchambers put in order, besides. The second floor will take more work before it is habitable—though it is fortunate, in a way, that the servant's wing is in better repair that the family's. Will wanted the Jeffreys engaged again, so we shall have one cook, at least."

"You can always stop here, if the Hall is unfit," Lord Colchester reminded them.

"I thank you, uncle. That is very good of you. But I've got my teeth in the business, and I want to see it though. Now that Will has that boy of his, it preys on my mind, the thought of leaving the place as it is."

"It's your house, John," Tavington objected, "and it's only right that you would want to make the best of it for _yourself."_

"Be as that may," John said, waving away his brother's protest. "I mean to get the place in proper order. Maybe by Christmas... You remember our Christmases at Wargrave, Will? What times we had! I found our old sleigh today. How we used to speed along in it!"

Lord Colchester laughed. "And I recall how a pair of young rascals used to jump out of a moving sleigh and roll in the snow. Frightened everyone to death, you two! Come along now," he said, getting up from the table. "I haven't had a chance to see the newspaper today, and then perhaps we'll have a hand of cards or two! "

They settled down to quiet occupations in the drawing room: Lady Trumfleet sewing, her husband again falling asleep in his chair. John had a novel, and Lord Colchester his newspaper. A comfortable silence, it seemed, for everyone but Tavington, who moved restlessly about the room, once again brooding over Kitty. What would Sattersby do to her? Would he divorce her? Would he beat her? It was certainly legal, and certainly within his rights, even though Tavington himself thought that beating women was unworthy of a gentleman.

Lord Colchester, engrossed in his newspaper, suddenly grunted. "Good God! Can it be--?"

He read: _"'Mrs. T--------, newly arrived from the tropical climes of Carolina, proved a worthy partner of the famed Colonel T--------, of whose exploits in America the whole town speaks. No fiercer was Queen Boadicea in her chariot, than Mrs. -------- in her chaise and four, when set upon by highwaymen, in fact the notorious brothers Richard and Samuel Carver. Like a tigress defending her young, the lady was impelled by the tenderest maternal sentiments to draw pistol on the infamous pair, and set them to flight, with the aid of her servants. Inspired by their mistress' fiery example---'" _

Tavington snatched at the newspaper and read the article himself. "Good God!" he cried, echoing his uncle. "Jane was attacked by highwaymen!"

"Dear me," croaked Trumfleet, waking from a doze, "awkward, that." His wife gave an unladylike snort of disdain at her husband's idiocy.

"Was she injured?" John asked, alarmed. "The boy—"

"No—it would seem they are unharmed," Tavington replied, distracted. He read on: _"'…Inspired by their mistress' fiery example, the good people fired upon the villains, and were left triumphant on the field of battle. The accomplished Mrs. T-------- has attracted the notice of many in fashionable society for her spirit and lively conversation; as has her sister, Miss R-------, for her exotic beauty and gentle demeanour. This correspondent has called upon the ladies personally and has seen the very pistol that put paid to the depredations of the notorious outlaws.'" _

"Jane has a pistol?" Tavington wondered, bewildered. "Where would Jane get a pistol? How could she know how to use a pistol?" His companions regarded him with puzzled faces all alike. "I must go home!" Tavington declared. "Jane was attacked by highwaymen and I was not there to protect her! I must see her and Little Will for myself!"

"Yes," agreed his uncle immediately. "Of course you'll want to see to her. That nice little mouse! Extraordinary! I didn't think she could say 'boo' to a goose!"

"Why would anyone want to say 'boo' to a goose?" John muttered. Aloud he answered, "Certainly. We'll leave as early as possible in the morning. I'm sorry we must depart so soon, Uncle, but you cannot say that this visit lacked incident and variety!"

* * *

Thank you to all my reviewers. 999--I hope this chapter satisfies! 

**Next—Chapter 38: The Return of Ulysses **


	38. The Return of Ulysses

**Chapter 38: The Return of Ulysses**

Everything conspired against Tavington the following day: a message to his brother from the workmen at Wargrave that needed immediate attention, a wheel of the curricle that required repair, his own horse that threw a shoe. He refused to put off their departure until the following day, and so it came to pass that they did not trot under the heraldic archway of Colneford Castle until after three in the afternoon.

After a single suggestion that they stop for dinner—furiously rejected--Sir John said nothing more on the subject. Tavington was wound so tightly that any further delay would certainly result in an explosion. Sir John suspected that his brother was feeling rather guilty about his cavalier dismissal of his wife. So he should. Will had made an utter idiot of himself over Kitty, and John hoped he never witnessed such nonsense from him again. Kitty was a pretty enough girl, to be sure—though not in a style that John favored himself. Yes, a pretty, pleasant girl, but hardly worth all the drama she had inspired. Perhaps it was the long-standing rivalry between the cousins that had caused Will to prove he could win at that game as well. _Damn foolishness. _

And now he would have to bear the consequences back in London. Who could blame Jane if she were angry? She was a good sort, John thought, and even if she was not the most beautiful woman of their acquaintance, Will had married her and so owed her some sort of allegiance. There was nothing John despised more than a man who let his wife down.

He looked about him, and remembered what he had meant to suggest to his brother. "Look here, Will, the Bell is up ahead. That's the place they stopped at before they were set upon. The people there might know something more. Let's water the horses, and have a drink."

Tavington scowled. "We should just ride on through. I've got to see Jane as soon as possible. If you must stop for a pint, do so, but I shall ride on."

Keeping his temper, John proposed a compromise. "We won't even dismount. Let's just ride up and ask the ostlers what they know, and if someone comes out with a pint for us, so much the better!"

And so they did. Questions about the Carver brothers and their humiliating defeat at the hands of lady brought a crowd of local loungers about their stirrups, each eager to tell the gentlemen different versions of the story. The innkeeper came out to greet them and was back in a few minutes with a tray of foaming pints and his own, colorful additions. The gentlemen sat their horses by the watering trough, all of them drinking deep. The curricle team eased forward for their rightful share, and the valets downed their own ale, while exchanging eager gossip in whispers.

"Beautiful as the day, she was," pronounced the innkeeper. "Dressed like a queen. Ah—you don't see many such!" He followed this effusion with a pretty accurate description of Letty, who had somehow become the redoubtable Mrs. Tavington.

John grinned at his brother's irritation, and asked, "Has anyone seen the Carvers since?"

"Not to my knowledge, sir. Could be they're laying low, like, hiding their shame at a lady putting them to flight. Could be they'll find a new stretch of road—and good riddance!"

"Did you hear if any of the ladies' party were injured?" Tavington put in.

"I did not, sir. As far as I know the lady kept all her party safe. So sweet and fair-spoken she was, too. God bless her."

It was entirely, as Tavington could have predicted, a waste of time, except for the good ale. Tavington finished his, and let John pay, since it had been his idea in the first place. At least their valets had enjoyed their drink and were still chatting amiably with the gossips milling about.

"For God's sake, let's go," he hissed at his amused brother, and they were off again.

"We must tell Mrs. Tavington that the publican of the Bell considers her as _beautiful as the day,"_ grinned John.

"Oh, stop. No. _You_ tell her that. With any luck, she'll box your ears, and the delay will not have been in vain."

_"_No doubt she knows that the Morning Post has compared her to _Queen Boadicea."_

"Stop."

_"And has called her 'a fiery example.'" _

"It was probably Moll Royston all along."

"She should publish a pamphlet with all the gruesome details."

"I suggest you stop talking about it _right now."_ He scowled, not wanting to let John get the better of him. They rode along for some time, glancing at the shadows in the trees. Tavington was irritated enough with his brother that he brought up a subject that he knew would vex him. "I know you don't like to hear this, but I still think _you_ should marry. As the avowed champion of married women, you should add at least one to their number!"

"You're right. I don't want to hear about it."

"But John—it is not too late. A wife could be a pleasant companion and give you an heir for Wargrave. You could be happy—" His brother looked reproachfully at him, and Tavington refused to be repressed. "You could make her happy, too—and set an example to the rest of us of how to treat one's wife. This business about Mamma forbidding it is just nonsense. You ought to get out and about and look for the right woman."

John breathed heavily through his nose, looking near to losing his temper. Finally he let out the breath with a sigh, and said directly. "The business about Mamma forbidding it is a useful way to stop conversation on the subject. I already met the right woman. Are you satisfied?"

Sensing that this was an unhappy subject, Tavington asked quietly, "Did she refuse you?"

"No."

"Then why are you not married—?"

"Because her filthy bugger of a husband doesn't have the decency to crawl off and die!"

"She is married, then?"

"Yes, _obviously. _If she weren't, I'd marry her tomorrow."

"Do I know her?"

"No."

They rode along in silence for awhile. John looked quite wretched, and Tavington was sorry he had brought it all up.

Finally, John said, "You might as well know the whole story. It may be that someday… Well, her name is Emily Martingale—Mrs. Peter Martingale. I knew her husband before I knew her—we frequented some of the same gaming houses. Her father is a gentleman with a small estate in Kent. Emily had a little money of her own, and when she married Martingale, everyone thought she had made a smart match.

"As you might guess, everyone was wrong. Martingale was always in over his head, and eventually had the bailiff after him for debt. He fled to Antwerp, but not alone. He was accompanied by his whore, for he deserted his wife, taking every penny she had brought to the marriage. He did not even have the decency to leave her a letter. She had no idea where he had gone, and was terrified when his creditors began hounding her.

"She had heard Martingale speak of me, and sought me out, begging me to help her find her husband. She thought he had been the victim of a crime, and might be lying injured somewhere, in need of her. All of our crowd, of course, knew the truth. She was such a pretty creature, and so friendless. I hated to be the one to tell her, and so I prevaricated, and called on her many times, and told her to go back to her father in Kent. She was still resolved on finding Martingale, and would not leave. One day, I called on her after having a few too many drinks, and told her what I knew.

"The news quite broke her. She had lost her earlier affection for the fellow--he had abused her scandalously--but she had still felt some loyalty for him. To find out how he had despised her—it was too much. She fell ill, and I helped her sell off her valuables--all her jewelry--I cheated a bit and added whatever I could to the sum. I paid some of Martingale's debts that she did not know of. What can I say? She was lonely, and had been abandoned in the cruelest way. And I, God forgive me, am a weak and foolish man.

"You can imagine the rest. Emily is a sweet soul, and still had a reputation to lose. After the child was born, she—adjusted-- the date of birth a little. Her family thinks the child is Martingale's. For that matter, Martingale thinks the child is his. Emily is not free of him. He has slunk back to London twice to my knowledge, trying to get money from her. She had tried to open a school, and had some success—but Martingale would not have it. He thought it demeaning to him for his wife to work for her living. He ordered her to give it up and took all her earnings, and then she had to give up her house as well, for she could no longer afford to maintain it. She lives with her parents at the family estate in Kent. And there is not a day that goes by that I do not wish she were mine."

Tavington was thunderstruck. He had imagined he knew John. "When did all this happen?"

"In the winter of '77, mostly. Fanny was born in December of that year, and is now almost four. A beautiful child. If anything happened to Emily—and she is not well--Martingale could come and claim my little girl and do anything he liked to her—place her in a charity school, apprentice her to an alewife or a lacemaker, put her to work in a mill, keep her to be raised by his whore—anything he liked, and there is nothing I can do about it."

"Do you ever see her?"

"Not often. Emily lives in dread of scandal. I have offered to set up an establishment for her and the child under my protection, but she cannot bear to hurt her family. I last saw the two of them in June. I plan on going to Kent next month for Fanny's 'official' birthday—I am her godfather to all the world. Perhaps you would like to go with me. It's not like she could inherit Wargrave, even if she were legitimate, but she is still your niece. I did not want to tell you, but now I feel better that you know the truth, if ever anything happens to me."

"Don't talk like that. That Martingale swine sounds like the sort likely to be murdered by a creditor, I'd say. Why didn't you call him out?"

"I'd have to find him to call him out. And he would only laugh. He cares nothing for honor. He would never accept a challenge."

"We could track him down in Antwerp, kill him, and throw the body in the sea."

John stared at his brother. "Good God, Will! Don't joke about such things!" He spurred his horse forward, shaking his head.

Tavington shrugged, and muttered, "What makes you think I was joking?" He rode after his brother, now understanding much better John's indignation on Jane's behalf, and his protectiveness towards Mrs. Porter. "Are you saying that there's been no one else since?" he asked John in amazement.

"Don't talk rot! I'm not a monk, after all. But as to marriage, no. I don't see that I can, in honor, marry anyone else. And that's an end of it!"

-----

A damp, chilly darkness had settled down on the city by the time they arrived at the door. John complained bitterly that they had missed dinner altogether, and must ask the cook for sandwiches, for he was too tired to go to White's.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, John," Tavington cut him off sharply, "if there's no dinner, we can have a late supper. And it won't hurt you to miss another night at White's. Come join us in the drawing room, and Jane can give you all the 'gruesome details' of her adventure you could possibly desire."

"There is that. And a few beef sandwiches—a roast onion—perhaps a slice or pudding or a good, ripe cheese—will make the story the more satisfying."

Tavington shrugged, feeling rather hungry himself. The two brothers dismounted, and tossed the reins of their horses to Doggery.

Sir John gave a few brusque instructions. "Take the curricle and the horses back to the stables. Have the horses _properly_ cared for. Go to the kitchens and scrounge what you can for supper. We'll ring when you're needed."

Tavington blew out a breath, preparing himself to face Jane's wrath—or tears—or contempt—or all three. Before he could touch the knocker, however, the door was flung open, and he was nearly bowled over by a pair of rowdy young gentlemen, obviously the worse for drink.

"Beg p-p-pardon," one stammered, glassy-eyed, and nearly fell down the steps to the servants' entrance. His friend seized him by the sleeve and swept the Tavington brothers an exaggerated bow.

"Fresh blood for the tables!" he cried. "They've quite cleaned _us_ out! Better luck to you, sir!"

Tavington stared at them in disbelief, and then saw that John was just as confused. No—they had not mistaken the house. What was going on?

The two of them pushed through the door and met Rivers in the hall. The butler looked harassed, which alarmed Tavington immediately. Rivers prided himself on his control, but tonight he was red-faced and tense. He brightened instantly, however, at the sight of the them.

"Sir John! Colonel! Thank God you're back!"

There was a raucous shout from the dining room, and Tavington leaned around the corner to see a group of men-about-town stuffing their faces at a dining room table laden with sandwiches, cakes, and fruit. Tom, their footman, his face full of blank disdain, was waiting on them, filling their wineglasses as if he wanted to hit them over their heads with the decanter. Food was trodden into the carpet. Wine puddled on the table, staining the linen like blood. There was a used chamberpot in the corner of the room, which had apparently been set there for some sort of target practice. Alas, most of the users had missed.

John turned to the butler, and growled low, "What the devil is going on? Who are these men?"

Rivers leaned forward, speaking quickly and quietly. "While you were gone, gentlemen, Lady Cecily took it into her head to host gaming parties here at her own house. She gave out it was all in jest—like a masquerade—but the house has filled up with gamesters and charlatans and people nobody knows. Her ladyship has opened the ballroom and filled it with gaming tables and a roulette wheel, and more tables yet in the drawing room. It's been like this night after night, sir, and the fellows come in and run wild over the house."

Seeing John's horrified expression, the butler said, "I took the liberty of locking up the library and your private study, sir, and also your private bedchamber, and yours, too, Colonel. Her ladyship insisted that her guests be able to amuse themselves in the billiard room. I'm afraid the table—"

"_My_ billiard table?" shouted Sir John, beginning to get very red himself.

"What about my wife and sisters?" Tavington broke in. The reality of the situation was just becoming hideously clear to him.

"They lock themselves in after dinner, sir. Sometimes they go up to the nursery to sit for a little while, but they have to lock themselves in there, too. I've had to lock the maidservants in after dinner as well. It's not safe, sir, with all manner of strange men roaming the halls. Mrs. Tavington cannot go up to attend young Master William without Mrs. Royston accompanying her both ways. It's a frightful state of affairs. The cook is about to give notice, what with all these fellows demanding fish pie and bombarded veal and negus and what have you until dawn!"

"So the ladies are in the nursery now, do you think?" Tavington persisted.

"Yes, Colonel, they should still be there. I must tell you," he confided, "that there was a tremendous quarrel. Lady Cecily wanted Miss Rutledge to sit with her in the gaming rooms and entertain the guests with her singing, but Mrs. Tavington absolutely forbade it, and the poor young lady did not know what to do! In the end, she obeyed her sister, but there were tears and screams, and Lady Cecily and Mrs. Tavington are not on speaking terms, and I'm just this close—" he gestured with a thumb and finger—"to giving notice myself!"

"Don't give notice, Rivers," Tavington snorted. "We are quite equal to putting an end to this state of affairs. Rather like the Return of Ulysses, isn't it, John?"

John looked aggrieved. This was just the sort of confrontation he had always dreaded, and now it was upon him. "Well, I suppose it could be worse if I had to do it alone. Do you suppose the old woman has gone mad, Will?"

Tavington stopped still. The thought had not occurred to him before. It was true she seemed more erratic, more unreasonably demanding than he remembered from the days before he had left England. _And she tried to keep Lucy a prisoner._

"No time for suppositions. You are Ulysses, whether you like it or not. I'll be Telemachus, since I'm younger and handsomer—"

His brother grunted in disgust.

Tavington laid his plans quickly. "Rivers. How many men are upstairs?"

"At least two score, sir. And some ladies—and some females who are not exactly ladies."

"Good God!" John rolled his eyes. "Now we're keeping a bawdy house, too?"

"Not after tonight, at least," Tavington said, perfectly in his element, rather excited at the idea of his planned raid on the unwanted guests. "Rivers, go to the kitchens and tell Cook that she can stop cooking, clean the kitchen and get on to bed. Sir John and I will speak to Lady Cecily ourselves." John groaned. "It must be so, John. There's nothing else for it." He waved the butler away. "Look sharp, Rivers. Find the rest of the menservants and bring them here as soon as you can."

Rivers hurried away, glad that someone knew what to do. Tavington turned to his brother. "And now to reconnoitre."

He walked down the hall to the billiard room. The green baize of the table was torn and soiled, but that did not disconcert the man and woman coupling on it. The man's wig was slipping from his head. The woman was masked.

Sir John groaned again, "My _billiard_ table!" He looked closer, and was outraged. "I _know_ him! That's Oliver Strangways! He's a member of White's!" He considered the woman. "Don't think I know her, though," John confessed. "Don't recognize the bubbies."

Tavington shrugged. "At least there are only two in there."

Further down the hall, they were relieved to find the morning room locked as well. Since the breakfast parlor could only be accessed through the morning room, there were two more rooms that should not be filthy wrecks, at least. "We'll clean out the dining room first," Tavington decided.

"We" included Tom, who recognized the master of the house and his brother with relief, and came at once when Tavington beckoned discreetly. "And this is our faithful swineherd, John," Tavington declared.

"Here, now!" Tom, innocent of the classics, remonstrated.

Sir John hurriedly explained. "My brother is referring to an old story about a gentleman who comes home to find his house filled with riff-raff. He tosses them out with aid of his servants, including a faithful swineherd."

"Oh!" Tom considered this. "All right then!" He retrieved a stout walking stick from the stand in the hallway. "Let's toss 'em!"

The three men strode to the door of the dining room, Tavington entered first, arranging his troops just inside. "Gentleman," he rapped out, his "command" voice cutting over the diners. "Leave at once! This house is not a gaming establishment, but a private home. You will depart directly!"

Some of the men did not respond: too drunk to understand him. The others were indignant. "Look here, sir!" cried one. "I paid good money for admittance, and I intend---"

Tavington crossed the room with two strides and grabbed the man by the throat. "Get out!" he snarled. He shoved the man toward Tom, who caught him neatly and dragged him to the front door. Before the man knew what had happened, he was outside, and the door slammed behind him. The other men at the table slowly began to understand that someone was asking them to depart.

"What are you, the magistrate?" asked one man blearily, his mouth open, revealing a half-chewed pastry.

John lost patience. "I am the master of this house, and you are trespassing! Now get out and don't come back!"

When the men did not respond quickly enough, Tavington took a threatening step toward the nearest. The man jumped up, knocking the chair back. "All right! But I want my ten shillings back!"

"Go to hell!" Tavington roared, and grabbed him, too.

The other men looked too unsteady to put up a struggle, but two at least were fighting drunk. Tavington punched one in the stomach and Tom whacked the other across the back. Somewhat cowed, the rest stumbled out, protesting. One bold fellow snatched up a bottle of wine and made off with it before Tom could stop him.

"Let him go, Tom," Tavington shrugged. "Good riddance. Lock the door for now, so none of them can come back in, and wait. I'll deal with the romance on the billiard table. They should be done by now, I would hope."

Not quite. Strangways was puffing effortfully, and the woman was squeaking along. They sounded like a worn-out barrel organ. Tavington eyed them in disgust and barked, "That's bloody well enough!"

The woman looked around, startled. Strangways ignored Tavington, intent on his own purpose, and collapsed on his partner a moment later, with a satisfied grunt. "What do you want, sir?" he drawled. "Impatient, are we? I'm quite done now. She's all yours."

The woman shoved him off of her and pushed her petticoats down, mortified. "You utter ruffian! I trusted you!" She looked like she wanted to shout at Tavington, as well, but was too embarrassed. She covered her breasts hastily. The paint on them was smeared, showing pink under the artificial white. They were still quite nice breasts, though.

Tavington eyed the woman gravely. "Do you have a way of getting home?"

"My coachman—" she faltered. She suddenly asked, clutching her mask fearfully. "Do you know me, sir?"

"Do you want me to know you, Madam?"

"No—oh, no!"

Tavington took her arm, none too gently, and escorted her down the hall. "Tom, call this lady's carriage. And be careful if some of the wretches are hanging about the door."

"My cloak!"

Tom found the white satin cloak, and saw the lady out the door. John stood watch, and Tavington went back to deal with John's fellow club member.

Strangways had nearly finished buttoning his breeches, but had fastened them awry. Tavington sneered. "Time to leave, sir. This establishment is closed—permanently."

"Unfortunate. I knew it was too good to last. Your mother knows how to make a man feel welcome."

Instantly he was on the floor, gasping in agony.

Tavington asked with calm curiosity, "What was that you said?"

"Nothing—nothing! Good God, sir, are you mad? I'm a member of Parliament!"

"As is my brother, sir. He is just outside the door, and is quite put out with you."

He gripped Strangways by the upper arm and dragged him out and down the hall.

Sir John looked at his acquaintance with reproach. "Rotten thing to do to a man's billiard table, Strangways. Remind me to piss in your soup, the next time you dine at the club."

"Sir John, I—"

The door was opened, and he flew through the air. They did not wait to see his feet meet the ground before the door slammed behind him. John went down to the billiard room, peered in, and considered the new stains on the green baize.

"I'll take every penny he owns, the next time we play."

"Do so." Tavington was feeling quite stimulated by the little fracas.

The real difficulty still lay before them. They could not start a fight in the drawing room with over a score of guests without destroying it. Some tact would be necessary, and they must approach their mother with a show of civility. At least now they could not be attacked from the rear.

Rivers arrived, bringing with him the two other footmen who had been waiting on the guests upstairs. With them were the two valets, Pratt and Doggery. Doggery was finishing off a chicken leg. Catching Tavington's annoyed eye, he shoved the gnawed bone in his coat pocket.

"You—Peter, is it?" Tavington addressed the smallest and youngest of the footmen. "Clean up the mess in the dining room as best you can. Salvage what you can of the food, and Sir John and I will sup from it later. If you hear anyone coming downstairs, be ready to show him the door—and don't listen to any arguments!" To Rivers, he said, "Give Peter the key to these rooms. I want the billiard room, the dining room—everything—locked up, so that when the guest upstairs come down there is nowhere else to go but out the front door. Pratt, stay here with Peter." It would be safer to have two guarding the front door.

And then, with Tavington in the lead, they ascended the stairs, hearing the clamor of excited talk above—the bets, the jests, the bursts of laughter.

"Is my mother in the drawing room, Rivers?" Tavington asked the butler in a whisper.

"She was, when last I saw her, sir,"

"Very well. We shall go there first."

A few curious faces turned their way as they entered. The drawing room doors were opened wide, letting into the music room beyond, where a cluster of young men lounged about the harpsichord. One of their number was picking out a rude ballad, much to his friends' amusement.

Closer to them was their mother, enthroned on a sofa, dressed and jeweled in her finest, fanning herself, and looking on the revel before her with great complacency. Her maid, sitting beside her, was the first to notice the tall shadows cast over them. Her gasp caught Lady Cecily's attention.

"Well," said the lady, with a sneer, "you are returned from the country at last, after deserting me for your uncle. It matters not. I have found better friends."

"Madam," John said, very seriously. "You are not well. These people are destroying your home. I have no idea what you mean to prove by such a bizarre display, but it stops now. These people are to leave, and not return."

"This is _my house!_ I can invite whom I like." She turned angrily to her younger son. "Just as you had no compunctions forcing on me the acquaintance of that horrid little Colonial creature. Such impudence. Her manners are as ugly as her face."

Tavington bit back a harsh reply. John's suggestion—that Mamma might be losing her mind—made him shiver. Her manner was composed, but her words so outrageous, and the idea of opening the house to gamesters so strange, that the possibility did not seem unthinkable. He controlled himself, and said quietly. "My brother is right. You are unwell. It would be best if you went to your room and stayed there until you are more yourself."

"I fear, Lady Cecily, that your sons have the right of it." Lord Fanshawe had materialized beside them, and now stood before their mother, smiling kindly and offering their mother his arm. "Allow me the honor of escorting you from the room. All this noise, this heat—it is perfectly understandable that you should be fatigued. I pray you, my lady—take my arm."

He murmured, in an aside to Tavington, "You do not come before time. I saw this state of affairs when I escorted your lady wife and her sister to the Theater Royal, and was most alarmed."

Aloud, he said, to the confused Lady Cecily. "Yes, that is right, Lady Cecily. It was amusing for a diversion, but one grows tired of sameness, and these people have been here quite long enough. Your maid is here—so Providential! A glass of wine in your own quiet boudoir is what I would advise. Let your sons bid your guests farewell."

Lady Cecily looked at the men confronting her. They were all against her. With dignity, she took the proffered arm and hissed at John, "See that the dealers at each table pay my share! I won't be cheated!" She swept away, with the maid following in her wake.

John was flabbergasted. "Good God! She was taking a cut of the dealers' winnings! That's illegal! We're lucky that the magistrates haven't raided the house!"

"Steady, John," Tavington urged him quietly. "Calm down. Fanshawe said truly that we were not before time. I think the thing to do is to announce that the house is closing, and they may finish what they have in play, but that that is the last, and that there is no more food or drink."

"Yes—that's sounds reasonable. Tom—pound your stick, and Rivers, make the announcement!"

Tom rapped the floor lustily, and Rivers, seeing that he had the guests' attention, declared, "My lords, ladies, and gentlemen! I regret to inform you that due to the indisposition of Lady Cecily, the house is closing and will not be opened for gaming again. Finish your play and depart, I pray you. No more food or drink is available. The servants below will call you your carriages or a chair, as you wish."

A great clamor of protest rose. Tavington remained closemouthed, and refused to enter into any arguments. He simply said, "no," to any attempts to persuade him otherwise. John was getting red with anger as he talked to the dealers. Table by table, the games were finished under the icy blue eyes of the Tavington brothers, and the people escorted out by the servants. Some—especially women—left voluntarily, fearing that the Watch might be called. It was a miserable business, and took over half an hour to accomplish in the drawing room alone. There was much indignation over the lack of wine, and a few men of their acquaintance pronounced it all very "bad form."

"Really?" asked John cuttingly, now very angry. "And how would _you_ like a gang of Mohocks to come into your house and use it thus? Bad form, indeed! It is _we_ who have been badly done by. Look at this!" he snarled, gesturing at the harpsichord, its keys stained with food and wine, "Or this!" he said, pointing to torn upholstery and broken ornaments. "You've behaved like a pack of savages. You are not welcome in my home, and I'll thank you to leave!"

And then they had to repeat the process in the ballroom, which was in some ways, even worse. The real professionals were here, away from the pretense of gentility in Lady Cecily's drawing room. The announcement was made, and along with the protests, there were some quietly venomous stares—the sort that made Tavington wish he had gone for his pistols before undertaking the business. All of these men were armed, of course, and not just with their dress swords, but with pocket pistols and knives. A few people had sneaked in here after the drawing room was closed and locked, and they too were persuaded to leave, one by one. Tavington did not wish to provoke the opposition into outright violence, but there were shoves; there were curses; there were threats.

One hard-eyed dealer, of a famous and noble name, completed his game and dismissed the grumbling players, and then swept his own winnings into his purse, leaving out a few coins. "Here," he said, contemptuously. "Give these to her ladyship with my compliments." John did not press the matter, but Tavington fixed the man with an unyielding glare and saw him out himself.

"We'll meet again," Lord Torrenham said pleasantly, giving Tavington a measuring glance at the front door. "I don't doubt it. I'm inclined to ask if my friends might not call on you tomorrow, for that matter; but I am inclined to make allowances for the possibility that your manners have become rather rusty with disuse, slaughtering Patriots in the colonies. Be as that may, I feel certain that we will shall meet again soon."

"Not at White's, surely," Tavington replied with an innocent smile, knowing that Lord Torrenham was a Whig, and would not set foot in the place. "But I will be glad to meet your friends—and you—whenever you like. My manners may be rusty—but my sword is not."

They finally whittled the interlopers down to a little knot of faro players, stonily intent on their own game. These young bucks, gaudily decked out, had the decided air of a group looking for a fight. The Tavingtons and their servants surrounded the table.

"Leave," Tavington ordered, in a flat, bored voice. He was ignored. There was a brief silence, save for the slap of a card and the muttered words over the game. "Tom," Tavington said, "These young gentleman seem to have trouble standing away from the table. Perhaps it is hampering them. You and Doggery will assist them."

Instantly, the two servants seized the table by the corners and upended it. Coins rolled away with a musical ring, and cards fluttered around them. The players tried to hold the table in place, but to no avail, as the other two servants stepped in.

"If you want to take your money along," Tavington suggested, in the same bored tone, "I suggest you retrieve it _now,_ for you are leaving at once, with or without it."

Two of the young men dived after the coins spilled on the floor. The three others came up fighting—one even drew his sword. A serious mistake. Tom whacked one young fool over the head with the end of his stick. John grabbed the other by his coat and boxed his ears. Both collapsed, the second one puking over the scattered cards.

Tavington faced the would-be swordsman, but did not even bother to unsheathe his own weapon. His reflexes were faster than those of an untried puppy full of wine. He evaded the point and reached in, grasping the boy's wrist in a vise-like grip. He slammed the wrist over the end of the upturned table and was rewarded a scream of pain. Tavington caught the rapier before it reached the floor, snapped it over his knee and shoved the broken half back in the boy's scabbard.

"In America I would have shot you down like the stupid boy you are; but I'm back in civilization now. I have to respect the niceties in my mother's house. A word of advice. Don't fight a man on his own ground when you're too drunk to stand unaided. And for God's sake, take some fencing lessons. Now get out."

One boy was drunker or braver than his friends. As Rivers dragged him through the ballroom door, he shouted, "You'll regret this! My father is Lord Lieutenant of—" His threat was cut off as he was shoved onto the steps and fell, bouncing down roughly.

John dashed after him, shouting in his turn. "I know your father, you young blackguard! Run to Papa, will you, you sniveling little poltroon? I shall be writing him myself, with a claim for damages!"

At the base of the stairs, two of the boys made a last stand, and abused the Tavingtons in the foulest language until they were dragged away by the footmen. They were ejected without even the courtesy of calling chairs for them. The door was slammed behind them, and locked, and bolted.

"And now, by God, for some supper!" Sir John declared. "I think we've all earned it! You lot come on in. We'll all go shares, this once."

Peter had done well in the little time he had had. They found some untouched bottles of wine, and plenty of roast beef and Cheddar, some mutton pasties, some pickled onions, and quite a lot of plum cake. The servants were both dutiful and sincere in their praise of their masters. Tavington felt a surge of nostalgia for his days of campaigning in America, and for many a meal spent with his brave soldiers around a campfire. In some ways, this was as satisfying. People might say that "no man is a hero to his valet," but he felt that he had gained considerable stature in the eyes of the servants tonight. And so had John, who had done his part in clearing the house of parasites and ruffians.

Of course, there would be a reckoning tomorrow, when they would have to confer about Mamma and her shocking behavior, but for tonight, there was the victory to savor. Then too, while the masters might share their feast, it was the privilege of rank to leave the washing-up entirely to the servants. Rivers was given instructions for the morning, and the two brothers went upstairs, glancing rather glumly into the shambles of the drawing room.

"I'm tempted to simply shut up the ballroom altogether," John muttered.

"_After_ they clean it, John. God knows what may raise a stink in there if it's not scrubbed down."

"I suppose." He yawned. "Well, I'm off to bed. Everything may look better tomorrow."

"Let's hope it does. However—" Tavington was determined. "We must talk tomorrow morning—right after breakfast—about this situation with Mamma. It's impossible. Perhaps we should have a physician in to examine her."

"She won't half like that!" John exclaimed. Then he smiled. "No, she won't, will she? A capital idea, Will!" Much cheered, he strolled down to his bedchamber.

Tavington looked at his watch. _Good Lord! Half-past ten, and I haven't yet seen Jane! _He made his way to his wife's chamber, feeling that perhaps he was rather like Ulysses, after all. And he acknowledged that _his_ Penelope might be rather more resentful of his absence that the original.

* * *

**Notes: **"Mohocks" were gangs of rich young thugs in the early 18th century, who sometimes affected "Red Indian" styles of hairdressing, and committed assault and vandalism for sport. 

Emily Martingale's situation was based partly on that of Mary Robinson's mother, whose odious husband went off to Canada with his mistress. The man then inflicted endless petty tyrannies on his abandoned wife—including the episode in which he forced her to close her school.

"Meeting your friends" or "Sending my friends to call upon you" was aristocratic code for threatening to call someone out--to challenge him to a duel. The aggrieved party would send his second to call on the person to be challenged (or sometimes would send the second to call on the other second). The seconds would arrange time, place, and weapons.

I would be the first to admit that this "Return of Ulysses" owes more to _The Wind in the Willows_ than to Homer. Tavington is the Water Rat, of course. He's my favorite character. Had Lord Colchester been present, we would have had Badger, too.

**Next—Chapter 39:** **Compromised Honor **


	39. Compromised Honor

_Hello to all my readers: I've got a business trip tomorrow, and thought I'd better go ahead and post now. Enjoy!_

**Chapter 39: Compromised Honor **

Wanting very much to see that Jane was safe and well, Tavington approached the door of her bedchamber. Were she not here, she might still be upstairs in the safety of the nursery. He tried the door, and found it locked. He knocked, very softly.

Jane's voice, gruff and angry, called out, "Go away! I have a pistol, and I'll _shoot_ you if you force the door!"

_Ah, yes. Jane's pistol. _

"Jane, it is I, William."

Another silence. Tavington wondered uneasily if she might be considering shooting anyway. To his relief, she did not, but opened the door a little, her small figure dim in the light of a single candle. She had obviously been asleep, and she did not look delighted at the sight of him.

Unsmiling, she said only, "Yes?"

With a light touch, he slipped past her into the room, and shut the door behind him. A glance showed him the pistol on the little table by the bed. "A very nice weapon. The newspapers are all singing your praises."

"As Moll once wisely told me, 'Menfolk aren't always there to protect the womenfolk.' And so I have often found. I am surprised to see you. We expected that you would be enjoying the company of the Earl and his guests indefinitely."

He managed a slight laugh and shook his head. "I returned as soon as I heard about the attempted waylaying. It was very alarming." He divested himself of his coat and unbuttoned his waistcoat as well, glad to be settling in for the night. Jane, however, was not admiring him as she usually did. Her eyes were hard.

"I see. You found it alarming. Imagine then, how _I_ found it."

It had begun to occur to Tavington that Jane really _was_ angry with him: seriously angry, and not only angry, but also rather contemptuous and dismissive, as if she had ceased caring much about him. It hurt more than being quarreled with, and did not seem to be the sort of mood he could overcome with a few smiles and kisses. She was looking at him steadily, as if permitting him to speak, but not wishing him to stay afterwards. He tossed the waistcoat aside and came closer to her.

"Jane. I was horrified when I read about the attack. I knew nothing about highwaymen frequenting the road. Had I known—"

She cocked her head, and raised an inquisitive brow. "What?"

"Well," he gave a faintly exasperated laugh, "I would certainly not have allowed you to travel until I could have escorted you!"

She looked at him in flat disbelief. "I see. I suppose you did not know about your mother converting her house into a gaming hell, either."

"Of course not! John and I have sent Mamma to her room and thrown the gamesters out. You must have heard the noise!"

"It sounded like it has sounded every night since we returned—shouts and drunken rioting and strange men pounding on our door, demanding our company--as if we were harlots employed by the _house _for their diversion. Do you know that your mother wanted Letty to expose herself to those brutes, singing for them and dancing with them, and _entertaining_ them?"

"Well--of course she could not—"

"No, she could not—not unless she wanted the whole of London to give her the name of whore!"

"Jane!"

"I suppose it would have been fitting. She and I would have been a matched set, for your mother had already called me a thief before the entire household!"

"What! Jane—I find that—"

For a moment, he thought she would hit him. Then she sneered coldly. "Oh yes, I forgot. Nothing I say can _possibly_ be true, as I am not an earl's daughter. Very well. If you do not wish to hear such things, I really think I have nothing further to say to you. Good night to you."

She opened the door again and stood stonily silent, looking at the floor, clearly wanting him gone. He pushed the door shut again.

"Jane, what has happened? I heard from Rivers about my mother wanting Letty to sit with her—obviously it would have been wrong—and no further gaming will be permitted. What do you mean, my mother called you a thief?"

She looked up at him with burning indignation, and her answer burst forth in a flood of scalding words. "It was all because of that hideous snuff box that your cousin so _condescendingly_ bestowed upon me. I have been locking my door ever since I returned from the country, what with all the strangers in the house, but I returned one day to find Lady Cecily in my room, rifling through my possessions. She has the household keys, of course, and she had been waiting for me. No sooner had I entered, than she rounded on me, waving the wretched object under my nose, denouncing me for having robbed your uncle during my stay at Colneford. Apparently the snuffbox is an ancient heirloom of her noble line, and she was certain I had pilfered it. The disturbance was such that your sisters, and Letty, and a number of the servants came to see what was the matter. There, in front of them all, she railed on and on about thieving Colonial trollops and magistrates and the gallows, and finally I told her to take the filthy thing out of my sight, if she must have it. That contented her, and she swept away triumphantly with her prize.

"We went out that night to hear Signor Bellini, escorted by Lord Fanshawe. The concert was marvelous, but going out proved a great mistake. When we returned we had to run the gauntlet of the gamesters and drunkards and libertines who snatched at our skirts and called out lewd suggestions. We have not left the house other than in the morning since then. It seems to be the only safe time. At that, with all the silly people calling on us since that ridiculous piece in the _Morning Post,_ we have hardly been able to get away. I have not spoken with your mother either, for Letty and I have taken our meals in the nursery with Moll. Better to dine with honest servants, than to be forever reviled as a _thief_ and an _eyesore,_ and a sly, scheming _adventuress!"_

Tavington forced himself to be silent, hanging on to his temper by his very fingernails. It would not calm Jane to begin shouting himself. Instead, he acknowledged how Mamma's absurd conduct would seem to a dependent young woman, coming nearly friendless to a strange land. No—it was worse than absurd. It was cruel, and it was exactly what he had always dreaded. Perhaps it had been cruel of him, too, to subject her to it. But they had been in England only a few weeks. Not staying with his mother would have looked odd—unfilial too. It was a dreadful tangle, and Mamma's incomprehensible behavior was not helping.

Very gently, he took her hands in his, and made her stand still. "Jane," he said softly. "I am sorry for all this wretched business. I am very much to blame. I had hoped that when Mamma met you—when she saw how accomplished and clever and kind you are—when she saw our little boy—I had hoped her heart would be softened and that she would accept our marriage. I was wrong. Perhaps at one time she might have, but I am beginning to believe that she is not quite rational. It has been years since I saw her. She is older now, and her mind, it seems, has deteriorated."

Jane looked away, with a faint snort of derision. He gripped her hands more tightly.

"Obviously, we must make arrangements of our own. However, I fear they will have to wait until the end of the quarter when we receive our income—for I—"

She glared at him, eyes blazing, and pulled her hands free. "Have you gambled it all away?"

"No!" He pushed the anger down. Clearly she thought the worst of him, and was not in the mood to be reasonable. A pang of conscience reminded him of the hundred pounds that had gone to silence the cottager. "I told you that John and I had business at Wargrave! We found a dire situation, and I lent John quite a bit of money to undertake desperately-needed repairs."

"Your brother's income must be three times our own! Why must _we_ subsidize _his_ lack of judgement?"

"Because he spent the money before the crisis became apparent. The roof must be repaired before winter. There is nothing to be done. John will pay me back as soon as he can—no later than the end of December, and then—"

She covered her face with her hands, and nearly wailed in despair. "Oh, my God! Are you saying we are staying until the end of the year? Oh, my God!"

"Jane! Calm yourself! The servants will hear you! John and I are going to speak to Mamma, and force her to moderate her behavior. We shall have her examined by a physician. The keys will be taken from her, and she will not be allowed to visit or to receive visitors without supervision—"

Jane shook her head. "So your sisters' lives will become that much worse! They are racked with guilt at her least complaint. How can they possibly control her? And—" she had a terrifying thought—" you cannot possibly expect _me_ to serve in that capacity! She would never obey me, and the servants would always take her part."

"Nothing is decided. It may be best to engage a genteel woman as both companion and nurse."

Jane sat on the bed, and shook her head again. "This is horrible. This is so much more horrible than I ever imagined…"

He came over to her, and stroked her hair. "My dear Jane. If she is ill, she deserves your compassion. Do not, I pray you, forsake us when we have need of you."

She looked up at him then, a sharp, shrewd look that he had never before seen. Her hazel eyes glinted green. "Oh! Do not imagine for a moment that I'm going to run away! I daresay that might be convenient for your family to get rid of the embarrassing intruder, but I won't give you all that satisfaction!" He stared at her, shocked. She hissed, "Oh, yes! Don't think I haven't had plenty of time to think the matter through. I won't, absolutely _won't_ give you any cause to divorce me. You've taken my money, and your mother has done her best to take my self-respect, but you are _not_ taking my child away from me!"

"How can you _imagine_ that I would want that?"

"How can I? _How can I not?_ I know that you've regretted marrying me—not getting your hands on my money—no, not that, of course—but I've _seen_ you paying court to other women, like that revolting Lady Sattersby--wishing you could have married someone else—someone _suitable. _Well, too bad! You married _me_, and a good bargain you made of it! I have no settlement, no pin money, no jointure to protect me, but you won't be free of me until one of us is dead—and you'll have to try harder than leaving me to the mercy of rebels and highwaymen if you want to hurry _that_ along!"

"That's enough!" he shouted. His hand was raised: it was all he could do not to hit her. Instead, he grabbed her by her bony shoulders and hauled her up, shaking her until her teeth rattled. "How dare you accuse me of trying to murder you, you little idiot? If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead!" He threw her onto the bed and pinned her down.

"Let me go!" she shouted. "I hate the very sight of you! You've made my life a misery!"

Her legs kicked uselessly, but she did not look frightened. She was still angry—too angry too be easily cowed. Tavington found that wrestling with his wife on their bed was rather exciting, even if she was furious with him, and he decided that the quarrel must be resolved pleasantly, no matter what else was said.

He tried to put his hand over her mouth. "Stop shouting! You'll wake the whole house!"

She wriggled like an eel, trying to escape, and clouted him over the head. He sought to get a better grip and got a mouthful of her hair. It tasted of apple pomade, and tickled. He sputtered a laugh and then realized the front of his shirt had become wet. He looked down, puzzled, and was clouted again.

"You unspeakable brute! It serves you right to get my milk all over you!"

Her thin linen shift was nearly transparent over her breasts, damp with the milk that his sudden violence had pressed out. Holding on to his wife's wrists, Tavington gave the wet, rumpled cloth a lick. The milk was very sweet. It reminded him that Jane was a mother, a very good mother, and was entitled to some fits of feminine temper. She had been alone too long, through his own fault, and had got some queer ideas. He began to pull up the shift, intent on making himself agreeable to her. She resisted, kicking out at him again, determined not to give in easily.

In fact, Jane was angrier than ever. William thought she was _amusing!_ He had become excited by her struggles, and rubbed his hardness against her, thinking this was all a game! He must imagine her some sort of hysterical female who could be placated with a little love-making. He appeared to think they were making love at the moment. She had never been so furious with him. He was too strong for her, and no doubt could have his way with her if he liked, but she would make him sorry later—_very sorry_—if he took her against her will.

There was a thud and clatter of something falling to the floor in Letty's room. They both froze at the sound, which was followed by a little scream from Letty herself.

"There! You see!" Tavington growled. "You've awakened Letty, and God knows whom else! They'll have heard everything you said!"

"I don't care! I haven't done anything wrong! _I _didn't betray my vows and then lie about it, or send my wife and child out to be robbed by bandits, thinking only of my own pleasure, or—"

_"Oh, no! Help!"_ Letty cried.

This cry registered in Jane's consciousness. She shoved Tavington off of her with a violent effort and jumped out of bed. "Something's wrong! Letty!"

She slammed open her door and ran out of the room, clad only in her damp shift. Tavington dashed after her instantly, cursing under his breath. He was not eager to be seen by anyone else in his present state of arousal. The hall was very dark. Tavington nearly crashed into Jane, who was standing stock-still in her sister's open doorway.

"What are you _doing_ here!" Jane demanded wildly.

Tavington looked over her head and started with surprise. The room was lit only by the remains of the fire. In the lurid glow, he could see Letty sitting up in bed, looking very frightened, her sheet clutched up to her chin. In a chair just inside the door of the bedchamber sat Lord Fanshawe, very much at ease. He smiled up at Jane, and rose to make her his usual courteous bow.

"Mrs. Tavington! And—Colonel Tavington!" he addressed them smoothly, flicking an amused glance at their state of dishabille. "Forgive an old man a moment of confusion. I was weary and chose to rest for a little while in a convenient chair. I seem to have dropped my walking-stick. I am very sorry to have disturbed you."

Letty stared at him in disbelief and cried to Jane, "I locked my door! I _know_ I did! I don't understand!"

Jane glared at the elderly peer. "I know you locked the door, Letty. I saw it for myself."

Very worried that Letty could be ruined by the scandal that would ensue if it were known that she had entertained a man in her room—however unknowingly, Tavington tried desperately to think of a way to keep this disaster quiet.

"Jane, hush!" he said in an undertone. "My lord, how came you here?"

Fanshawe raised his brows in ineffable calm and opened one hand. A black, dully gleaming object lay there.

"I had a key."

"Letty!" Tavington gasped, "Did you give this man a key to your room?"

"No! I swear it! Please! Mrs. Tavington! I never knew he was there until I heard a noise and voices, and then I saw Lord Fanshawe! But nothing happened! Oh, please, my lord, tell them that nothing happened!"

"My dear Miss Rutledge, do not distress yourself," declared Lord Fanshawe. He smiled suavely at Tavington, "I assure you, sir, that the lady is blameless. Somehow—not through Miss Rutledge-- a key came into my possession and with the late hour and the wine—"

_"Who gave you that key?"_ Jane demanded, her blood still up. "I know Letty never did! Who gave it to you? Did you bribe a servant or---" A horrible idea occurred to her, and she hissed out through clenched teeth, "Did Lady Cecily give you that key? I know she owes you money!"

The same ghastly thought had struck Tavington simultaneously. "Jane! Be quiet! We cannot let anyone know—"

But she was darting back, under his arm, back to her room, her bare feet slapping almost silently against the polished floor. She returned in a heartbeat, shaking hands clasping her pistol in front of her. Tavington made a grab for her. Letty screamed again, and even Lord Fanshawe's insouciant expression grew a little wide-eyed.

Jane struggled in her husband's arms and he tried to get the weapon away from her. She screamed, completely out of control, "You villain! I won't let you hurt my sister! I won't let anyone hurt my sister! You get out before I—"

_Wham! _The pistol's deafening roar was echoed by a faint tinkle of glass. Tavington had succeeded in knocking Jane's hand up, and she had put a hole in the left upper pane of a window. Letty's eyes were huge, her mouth hidden by her hands pressed over it.

As the noise faded, leaving a dreadful lowering silence, Lord Fanshawe rubbed his ear ruefully. "My dear Madam," he observed to Jane, "I thank you for providing me with a novel experience—all too rare at my time of life. I have been threatened by fathers and brothers often enough, but never by a _sister!_ Your affection does you credit. I salute you." He bowed again, to Jane's bewilderment.

Firing the pistol had purged some of her rage, and she shivered in her husband's powerful grasp, wondering would happen next.

The house was stirring. Caroline, then Penelope were coming out of their rooms, crying, "What is it? Oh! What is it?"

Penelope saw Lord Fanshawe first and gave a little shocked gasp. Caroline rushed over to Letty.

"Are you hurt, my dear?"

John was struggling into a velvet banyan as he strode down the hall, calling out, "What the devil is that noise?"

Tavington took the pistol away from Jane, and pushed her at Letty. "Take care of your sister."

He met John just outside the door. John saw him with a weapon in his hand, and asked, "Good God! Was one of the blackguards still in the house? Have you shot someone?"

"No—no one is hurt but a window. John, there is something of a crisis afoot. Stand guard by the staircases, for God's sake, and send any servant who comes snooping back to bed. Tell them Mrs. Tavington was sleeping in Miss Rutledge's room for safety, and knocked her pistol off the bed table by accident. We don't want any of them telling tales. We may have to trust Rivers, I suppose, but no one else!"

"All right—if you say so," John answered, concerned and suspicious. He stationed himself in the hall, and Tavington heard him talking down the staircase to some menservants.

To his horror, Mamma was coming down the hall. She, at least, had taken some time to arrange herself, and was wearing an elegant, loose bodied gown. A _grand coiffeur_ of lace, gauze, and ribbons hid her undressed hair. She seemed curious, but not particularly alarmed. Tavington left John to deal with her, and went back into Letty's room.

The women were all crowded around his sister-in-law, whispering, holding her hand, smoothing her hair. There was nothing more for him to do there at the moment, so he directed his attention to Lord Fanshawe.

"My lord, whether by accident or by design, you have compromised a lady's honor. You will leave this house immediately, and my friends shall call upon you tomorrow morning. Do not think that your age will protect you from me!"

"My dear sir!" Lord Fanshawe protested airily. "I should be only to happy to receive your friends and you, too, at your leisure. I am always happy to meet with interesting people. However, if you mean to challenge me to avenge your innocent sister, I must observe that the matter can be dealt with far more expeditiously, and with far little bloodshed, if I simply do what is incumbent upon me as a gentleman."

Rather puzzled at Fanshawe's old-fashioned verbiage, Tavington asked, "And that is---?"

A delighted, debonair smile. "Why, beg the honor of her hand in marriage, of course!"

"You wish to _marry_ Letty—er, Miss Rutledge!"

"Of course! Unworthy as I am, I aspire, as we all do, to rewards beyond our desserts. Madam," he moved gracefully to the foot of the bed, and addressed Letty. "Pardon my unpardonable intrusion. I had no desire to alarm or disconcert you. An accident—but, perhaps, a fortuitous one." He bowed with a sweeping gesture. "My life, my fortune, my happiness are at your disposal. I await only your word to make me the happiest of mortals."

Frightened and bewildered, Letty whispered to Jane, "What does he mean?"

Jane could not speak for shock. Caroline murmured, "He is asking you to marry him, my dear."

Penelope, her eyes as round as Letty's, added, "You must accept him. It is the only way to prevent a duel and a great scandal!"

"But—" Jane, still trying to grasp the situation, could not utter the protest she felt.

Letty could, however. "But I can't! I'm not—Mrs. Tavington, tell him! I can't marry him! It would be—"

Fanshawe's brows rose. He asked Tavington, "There is not some secret marriage, is there?"

"No—nothing of the sort! I am not sure what she means. She has had a great shock." Tavington's mind was racing. _Letty, to marry a viscount?_ It seemed fantastic, unbelievable—something out of a fairy tale! True, the man was fifty years her senior, but marriages between parties of unequal age were made every day. Jane would hate it, he knew, but there was nothing else to be done. A duel might satisfy his own honor, but Letty would still be ruined, and Jane degraded by the gossip that must follow.

Fanshawe was pressing his suit, ignoring Tavington's confusion. "Madam, forgive my importunate manner. It indicates the fervency of my sentiments, and must not be considered a sign of disrespect. Any misgivings, any concerns—speak them to me frankly, and I shall do my utmost to dispel your alarm!"

"My lord—you are so—I can't marry a nobleman---I'm not—" Letty was still dithering.

Jane collected herself enough to choke out, "Lord Fanshawe, my sister thinks herself of unworthy of you. Before you commit yourself, there are things that must be disclosed. Letty, do you want Caroline and Penelope to leave the room?"

Letty shook her head. "No. I trust them, but I beg them not to repeat this to anyone else." She took a deep breath, and said, "I really am Mrs. Tavington's sister. We do share the same father, but—he did not marry my mother." Silence. There was little reaction. Natural children were indeed a fact of Nature. They were everywhere in society, and Letty's revelation was not wholly unexpected to anyone who knew the world. She saw that they were not angry, or denouncing her at once, so she threw a glance at Jane, who sighed, and nodded. "My mother," Letty told them, 'was—a slave. She was a quadroon, and her mother was a Cherokee woman taken in a raid. I am an octoroon myself, and one quarter Indian."

Tavington's sisters seemed surprised, rather than put off. Lord Fanshawe, however, was positively fascinated.

"A child of three continents!" he exclaimed. "Only that could begin to account for your peerless beauty! A remarkable tale. I knew you were a unique individual, Madam, and this confirms it! Extraordinary!"

Letty's voice dropped to a whisper, "And—I was a slave myself, until I came to England. I have no money—nothing--"

Jane burst out, "She grew up with me. We have never been apart. Her mother—the best, the kindest of women—was my nursemaid. Letty was my constant companion, and though the law forbade her education, I taught her myself. She is very dear to me, and I will not have her sold for a gambling debt!"

"Jane, be quiet!" Tavington commanded. "There is nothing else to be done. My lord," he said, eyeing Fanshawe coldly. "You have heard my sister's disclosures. Do you wish to retract your proposal?" He stared at the elderly peer, giving him clear notice that he was a dead man if he did.

Lord Fanshawe, however, was not the least troubled. He pulled up the chair he had been sitting in closer to the bed. "May I sit in your presence, Madam? Ladies? The hour is late, and I find myself fatigued," Satisfied that they were not offended, he seated himself, carefully adjusting the drape of his coat, and addressed Letty.

"My dear young lady, you fear you are unworthy of me? It is I who do not deserve you! I dare proclaim it to all the world."

"But people may talk—"

He laughed. "People have talked about me all my life. Let them. They have nothing better to do, as their lives are not as interesting as mine, evidently. Your lack of fortune matters nothing to me, as I inherited at a young age what amounts to inexhaustible wealth. I have a splendid house in town, three country estates, and an assortment of other properties. I have no political aspirations. Your lack of fortune and your birth can cause me no inconvenience. I care nothing for either. Nor do I care about the gossip of fools. It is you—you, with your loveliness, your charm, your passion for beauty in all its forms--with whom I wish to share my remaining years. I would wish it were you the child of a _thousand_ slaves."

Letty had never heard such a beautiful speech in her life, and certainly never addressed to her. She flushed with pleasure and curious kind of hope. "I never thought I would ever marry. I never thought anyone would want to give me his name. Thank you, my lord, for asking me, and I accept your kind offer very gratefully."

"Letty!" Jane cried, completely taken aback. "Consider—"

Lady Cecily was heard outside in the hall, loudly demanding to know what was going on in her own house.

"Whatever it is, I'll wager you had a hand in the mischief," Sir John said grimly. "Come, Madam, I am taking you to your room. You _shall_ stay there until morning—and then we shall talk about your behavior!"

They could all hear her outraged protests, as her voice faded, and then was cut off, punctuated with the sound of door slamming.

"Did my mother connive with you for this?" Tavington asked quietly.

"My dear sir! I have kept ladies' secrets all my life, and I am not about to tell you your mother's!" More seriously, Fanshawe added, "I cannot answer your question. Some parts of the story, even given without names, are too sordid to reveal in the presence of ladies. You must pardon me, believing that I wish only the best for this most excellent creature."

He rose from his chair and retrieved his walking stick. "And so, goodnight to you all." Another elaborate bow, and a kind look for Letty alone. "Send you friends to me tomorrow, by all means, Colonel—or better, come yourself. Around two, I should think. I shall have my man of business present a tentative settlement for your perusal. Your fair sister shall not find me ungenerous. Farewell."

He exited the room with great dignity, passing a thunderstruck John on the way.

"Good evening to you, Sir John. A fine night, is it not?"

John looked him over. "You haven't been shot, have you, my lord?"

"Not tonight, no. I have never been better. I believe I can find the way out myself."

"I cannot permit that. Here—Rivers!" he called softly down the stairs. "See Lord Fanshawe out. Do you require a chair, my lord? Rivers can call one for you."

"That would be most obliging. I thank you."

Determined to know what was happening, John hurried to the family council in session in Letty's room.

"What the devil is going on? Oh, Caro—Pen—we're all here. Would someone be good enough to tell me what is going on?"

Tavington took his brother aside, and gave him the story in brief.

"Lord Fanshawe never left tonight when we threw the others out. Somehow he got his hands on a key to Miss Rutledge's room. She was asleep, but awakened when he dropped his walking-stick. She cried for help and we came to assist her. Jane tried to shoot him, but I caught her arm and we are now missing a window pane."

"By God!" John interjected, very impressed. "I wish I'd seen that! Good for her! Anyway, go on! Did you call the rascal out?"

"I threatened to, but then he surprised us all by soliciting Letty's hand in marriage!"

"The old libertine! Well—I suppose--" he shrugged. "--I suppose the world will say she's made a great match, and is a very lucky girl. I can't judge them, but she's just a young thing—and he…"

"We must hope for the best, John. They must marry. If he were to let slip he had been in her room…"

"Naturally, they must marry. There's no help for it."

"He said he would give her a generous settlement."

"I don't doubt it! He's as rich as Croesus! And after all, how long can he live?" John considered the matter. "Very likely, he'll drop dead in a year or two and leave her a bouncing young dowager with plenty of money. Then _she_ can make a fool of herself for love, like all the rest of us!" He yawned. "I'm going back to bed. We must sort out the old woman in the morning."

"And I must sort out this marriage business in the afternoon."

"Then you need your beauty sleep, brother mine. Here!" he called. "Caro! Pen! Let Miss Rutledge get some rest. We'll all think better for some time spent with our pillows." He nodded and turned back to his room.

Tavington found his wife and sister-in-law both in tears, holding each other tightly. "Come along, Jane. You must calm down. It's the way of the world, and all may be well."

"You go on to bed, honey," Letty whispered. "I'll be all right. I need some time to think, and I'm so sleepy nothing makes sense. Will I really be Lady Fanshawe?"

"Yes, Letty dear, but he is so old—"

Tavington pulled her away. "Jane! Leave it for now—"

"Yes, he's old," Letty said, considering, "but he's so noble, so refined. His eyes are so kind when he speaks to me. I think it—might be very nice."

Tavington looked back at her, glowing in the firelight, thinking over this new twist of fate. He shut the door, and at the sound Jane suddenly began to sob. She swayed against him precariously, and he thought she might faint. Stooping quickly, he swept her up in his arms and carried his distraught wife back to the comfort of their bed.

-----

**Note:** Thank you to all my reviewers.

Some of you have raised good questions. Foodie in particular asked about the ownership of the house in Mortimer Square. The house really does belong to Lady Cecily, and was not part of the entailed estate that Sir John inherited from his father. The house was given to her as part of her marriage settlement in such a way that Sir Jack could not legally sell it to pay off his debts. While Sir John is technically Lady Cecily's guardian (as her son), she still has the right to bequeathe the house (or sell it, or rent it, or whatever) to whomever she likes.

**Next—Chapter 40:** **Marriage à-la-mode**


	40. Marriage a la Mode

**Chapter 40: ****Marriage à la Mode**

"There are more in here, John," Tavington declared, looking inside an ivory puzzlebox in his mother's boudoir.

His brother only grunted and added the slips of paper to their growing stack. Since eight o'clock, the two of the them had been ransacking their mother's apartments, trying to put her papers in some sort of order. Lady Cecily had become very secretive as her passion for gambling had consumed her. Tavington doubted that she kept track any longer of what she owed and what she was owed in return. Promissory notes over a year old had gone uncollected. With care, they should have some idea of what potential resources they could command on her behalf. What her total debts were remained a mystery. What they had already found proof of was considerable enough.

On a shelf in one of her wardrobes, John discovered a pile of unpaid dressmaker's bills, and whistled at the total. "The minute word gets out that she's ill, the creditors will come crawling out, demanding their money," he predicted.

Lady Cecily was not being helpful. She had tried to refuse them entry, and then threatened legal action, and then, when John told her to hold her tongue, she had withdrawn in a sulk first to the daybed in her boudoir, and then, after her sons had searched her room, to her bed.

Little enigmatic notes were everywhere: stowed under her mattress, under the carpets, in all the drawers of every piece of furniture that had them, in her pockets, pinned to the inside of her hats. Her maid, Fabienne, had tried to sneak away with a letter to Lady Cecily's new lawyer, the one who had written her new will, after Lucy had eloped and been disinherited. Tavington had taken it from her and tossed it in the grate to burn, and then sent the young Frenchwoman back into his mother's bedchamber to tend to her.

Meanwhile, John found a copy of their mother's will and read it out loud to his brother, with scathing comments. "Do you know she's leaving Caro and Pen nothing at all but a few pieces of jewelry?" he demanded, growing more and more irate. "I can understand why she's bequeathed you this house. I can understand why she's leaving me nothing but a card table, on the grounds that I inherited the whole entailed estate from Father, but you'd think she would have shown more regard for our sisters, who've sacrificed their lives and futures at her demand!"

"She's left me this house?" Tavington asked, surprised. "I certainly would have thought she would have left it to the girls—at least for the duration of their lives. Isn't there anything in the will requiring me to let them live here?"

"Nothing. You could toss them out, rent the house—even sell the house, since the old woman received it as a freehold, not as a long-term lease. They're not protected in any way. Thank God their money is held in trust. At least they'll always have an income!"

Tavington shook his head. "Obviously I would always see that they have a home here—and you as well. Perhaps Mamma takes for granted that I would do so."

John snorted. "I think she simply doesn't care." Grudgingly, he added, "It could be that it's all part of her condition—if she _is_ going mad. I sent a letter to Sir John Elliott this morning, asking him to call and examine her as soon as possible. No matter what that jumped-up medicine man says, though, I am still her legal guardian, as her son, and she's not going to be sending little notes to her friends or to her new lawyer!" He raised his voice. "If nothing else, I'll tell everyone her judgement is impaired due to _extreme old age!"_

"I've told Rivers to tell anyone who calls that she's indisposed," Tavington agreed. "After Elliott gives us his opinion, we should sit down with the girls and hammer out a strategy for dealing with this. They should be included in any decision."

"And Mrs. Tavington should be included too," John insisted.

"Yes—you're right. Jane is very sensible, and will no doubt have clear-headed suggestions, not being bound to Mamma by ties of family affection.

John grunted. "Hardly!"

Tavington liked the idea of including Jane more and more._ She will be less angry with me, if she feels that I understand how difficult Mamma has been. If she has a say in whatever we do, she will know I respect her judgement. That could only ease our current estrangement._ Jane had cried herself to sleep last night, and had not wanted his attentions. He had held her until she fell asleep, not daring more while she was so distraught over Letty's peculiar engagement. He was worried about Jane. He could still hardly credit the evidence of his own eyes, when last night she had tried to shoot Lord Fanshawe. Jane's nerves seemed shredded, and he guiltily acknowledged that he was largely to blame.

"What about Protheroe?" John asked. "You've been in contact with him. Do you think he would prove useful?"

"That's a thought indeed!" Tavington exclaimed. He found paper and ink at his mother's writing table, and immediately composed a note, asking their brother-in-law for his help.

_My dear Protheroe— _

_If your business permits, could you see your way clear to calling on us as early as possible today? I am aware about my mother's strictures concerning you, but we have cause to believe that her reason is impaired, and have sent for Sir John Elliott to examine her. We are much in need of sound advice as to our options in restraining her from causing herself embarrassment, and we wish to keep the matter within the family as far as we can. I am reluctant to put the whole story to paper, and will give you the full details in person. _

_On another head, my sister-in-law, Miss Rutledge, has quite suddenly received an offer of marriage from Lord Fanshawe. She is inclined to accept it, but I would like the settlement papers reviewed by a legal expert. He asked us to call this afternoon. If today is impossible, let me know when it would be convenient, as both matters are of some urgency. _

_I am, etc. _

_William Tavington _

The note was dispatched immediately, and they were still going through their mother's effects when their brother-in-law arrived. Tavington found a very recent letter from his Cousin Anne to his mother, giving all the salacious details of his brief affair with Kitty. He looked it over, felt rather sick, and shoved it into a pocket to study later. For a moment he loathed his cousin. Very slyly, she had reported the tale only as scandalous rumor and innuendo, not committing herself as to its truth. However, the opinions expressed about Kitty were smug and catty, and the things Anne wrote about Jane and Letty were simply hateful and mean-spirited. Tavington felt a wave of depression. _No wonder Jane detests my family. Excepting my sisters, of course. Thank God for them. I must be more careful of how I permit the world to speak of my wife._ The rest of the documents were gathered up, and the disputed snuffbox set on top.

They brought Protheroe into the inner sanctum of John's study, where they could not easily be overheard, and told him the bizarre tale. Unhappily, he had already heard about the gaming parties, which meant that everyone in London knew about them. He was concerned about repercussions—possibly legal, or more likely personal—from those who had been ejected from the house.

Tavington shrugged. "I haven't heard anything from Torrenham. He was drunk last night. They all were. If he calls me out, I shall meet him--more fool he!-- but he uttered a vague threat, rather than a definite challenge. I refuse to worry about such a fellow. We are more concerned with Mamma now. You might as well hear the rest of what has been going on..."

Protheroe listened attentively to their descriptions of their mother's behavior. Tavington related the story of Lady Cecily accusing Jane of theft.

John had not heard that, and just groaned. "Obviously, there's no truth to it at all! We all saw Lady Trumfleet give Jane the wretched thing in the presence of our uncle the Earl and everyone else at the table. The old woman just gets stranger and stranger!"

Cautiously, Protheroe offered his own analysis. "It is sometimes difficult for family members—especially children—to recognize that a parent's faculties have declined. What is apparent to the rest of the world is hidden to those who share a household, who have become inured over time to growing eccentricity. In Mrs. Protheroe's own case—well, what can I say? She was made a prisoner under this roof because her mother imagined her to be unwell—or because she feared something else. I do not wish to dwell on the past, but my own impression at the time was that her ladyship had ceased to have a firm grip on reality."

John sighed. "I've let it all slide too long. I'm very much to blame for that fiasco. Hiding in the library was easier than fighting the old woman. With Will here, I feel like I have some support."

"You do," said Tavington, giving his brother an understanding nod.

"Well—that's all water under the bridge. One good thing that might come of this affair is welcoming Lucy back to the family—and you and your little boy, too, of course. Caro and Pen will have a hard time. They take "Honor thy mother" very seriously--the Commandment my mother pounded into their heads from childhood." He gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Didn't work with me, of course. No one could ever teach me anything—which was why I was such a dunce at school!"

Protheroe laughed lightly. "Certainly, if her ladyship is ill, she cannot be permitted to dictate to this household, either by threats or manipulation. You say a physician will be examining her? Very good. The point is moot, of course. As her son, you are her guardian at law, and can command her obedience."

John groaned, and shook his head.

Tavington put in impatiently, "Yes, John, you can and you must. I've locked her in her room and left a footman up by her door, with orders to keep her there on pain of immediate dismissal. She has her maid, and her meals will be sent up to her. No one wants to harm her, or to stint her anything—whether the necessities of life or her accustomed luxuries--but neither can we allow her to make an exhibition of herself. She has done enough harm with her ravings and her accusations."

"Well," said Protheroe heavily. "She can be kept here, or committed to an institution—"

"My mother in a Bedlam!" cried John, truly horrified. "Never!"

"No, never," Tavington agreed hurriedly. "It's unthinkable, Protheroe. She must stay here. She will be most comfortable in her own bedchamber and boudoir. If we find a respectable woman to mind her, it might be possible for her to join us for meals, if she can be persuaded to moderate her behavior."

Protheroe said nothing, but nodded thoughtfully. Tavington understood that Protheroe considered the possibility of Lady Cecily persuaded into reasonableness so small as to be not worth mentioning. Reluctantly, the lawyer brought up an issue that filled them with dread. "It may be," he observed, "that if your fears about her debts prove true, she is more likely to be committed to a debtor's prison than to a Bedlam."

"That won't happen," Tavington swore. "We'll find a way. You can see how much she is owed." He gestured at the heap of promissory notes.

"We will begin collecting on those." John promised. "I will make a list of them, and write to all the men on the list. I'll ask Caroline to write to the women, politely requesting payment of the debts of honor."

"And if payment is not forthcoming," Protheroe mused, "a letter from a lawyer often has a salutary affect!"

Tavington grinned. "You are a splendid addition to the family, Protheroe!"

Their brother-in-law sketched a bow, and then grimaced. "You ought to know of something else that may cause talk. You have heard, I trust, that Lord Ravenswood died two nights ago, after a long struggle."

"No," said Tavington, rather surprised. "Well, yes, we knew he was dying, but we had not heard that all was over."

"You have not heard, then, that he bequeathed ten thousand pounds to Lucy."

"No!" cried John. "I mean-er-that's splendid! When we saw him, he did mention her…"

Tavington felt a tightness at the back of his neck. "More cause for speculation and gossip."

"Indeed," nodded Protheroe. "There may be some little delay before the money is released, but then perhaps we may be of service in your current difficulties—"

"I pray that _a temporary loan_ is not needed," Tavington told the lawyer.

"Very good of you to offer, though," said John. "But it's only fair that Lucy get to keep the money, after all her difficulties at home." His voice drifted off. None of them really wanted to discuss the realities implied by the bequest.

----

The famous physician, Sir John Elliott, was too busily engaged to see Lady Cecily before four o'clock, and so Tavington decided they would have time to deal with Lord Fanshawe. Already tense from the morning's struggles, Tavington was glad of Protheroe's company as he faced the coming appointment with—too strange for words—Miss Laeticia Rutledge's suitor.

Tavington had never been in Fanshawe's London house, and was reluctantly impressed by the elegance and good taste displayed from the moment one passed the front door. A huge portrait of Fanshawe in court dress, painted by Allan Ramsay thirty years before, was the first thing one's eyes fell upon. The man in it, only a few years old than Tavington, deserved his sobriquet of "the handsomest man in England." The brilliant colors immortalized Fanshawe's splendid prime, and gave an illusion of three-dimensional depth to the picture. There was no time to admire, or to reflect on the merciless iniquities of Time. The two men were admitted to Lord Fanshawe's private study immediately, by a liveried servant of extraordinary good looks

The viscount, stylishly dressed, met them with every courtesy. Protheroe was introduced and greeted as an equal and a future brother. Had it not been for the outrageous circumstances forcing this union, and the absurd disparity in ages of the betrothed parties, Tavington would have been pleased and flattered by such attentions, and thought this marriage a very good thing for everyone involved. Fanshawe, it was clear, regarded it so, and was going out of his way to soothe Tavington's qualms. Fanshawe's lawyer, old, shrewd, and resourceful, presented them with a marriage settlement that no one in his right mind could reject.

"As you see," said Mr. Pryor, noting all the salient points, "my principal has spared no efforts to protect the young lady, and ensure—as far as is humanly possible-- a future of comfort and security for her."

Tavington looked over Protheroe's shoulder, as they read the document together. Letty would have pin money for clothes and jewels of eight hundred pounds per annum. She was promised a carriage of her own. She was assured a jointure of fifty thousand pounds on Lord Fanshawe's death. In addition, a house in Half Moon Street was to be bequeathed to her absolutely—not simply with a life interest. Finally, any children of the union were to have a total of thirty thousand pounds settled upon them—the sum to be divided equally amongst their number. That last provision made Tavington feel rather queasy. _Is the old reprobate actually planning on procreating with sweet young Letty? _

Tavington knew that Fanshawe had an heir of about Tavington's own age, and had met the man in the past. A rather starchy fellow, as unlike his father as possible, with an equally unbending wife. John had told them that there were any number of young grandsons. What would the Honorable James de Vere think about his father's new wife? Certainly Fanshawe was equal to guarding Letty from unpleasant family friction, but it was equally important to protect her legally in the event of Fanshawe's death.

Protheroe was studying the document with great attention, and raised a few minor points. The two men of law were off, discussing the matter in the arcane language of the Inns of Court.

Fanshawe smiled indulgently, and beckoned to Tavington. "Let our wise friends hammer out the details to their mutual satisfaction. Let me show you some items of interest whilst they work."

Down the patterned, marble-paved hall, Tavington found himself in an exquisitely furnished little parlor, much like the morning room at home, but nearly fanciful in its use of pale colors and the lightness of its furniture. A gilded escritoire was matched with a gilded chair, two sofas in ivory watered silk faced each other companionably. The mantelpiece was white marble, with a relief showing a gathering of the Nine Muses and Apollo. Silken panels of trailing fruit and flowers brightened the walls; and on high the merry faces of gods and goddesses peered over the edge of a little inset dome of painted blue sky, watching the mortals below with amusement and kindness. It was room dedicated to the arts: for there was a golden harp, a gorgeously painted spinet, and by one window, an easel displaying a sketch of St. James Square.

Fanshawe smiled up at the portrait above the mantelpiece. "Good day to you, Camilla my dear," he greeted the subject of the portrait. A very pretty girl of about fifteen, clad in classical draperies, gazed back at them cheerfully from within the frame. "My daughter--who had to leave us all before she had hardly known life. This was her favorite room. Do you think that Miss Rutledge will be pleased with it?"

"She will think herself in Heaven."

"Good." Fanshawe smiled happily. "Much better that one's wife thinks herself there than in the other place, don't you think?"

Tavington grunted, suspecting that Fanshawe was making a fling at Jane's angry words, which he had no doubt clearly heard. "The manner of your courtship, my lord, nonetheless leaves much to be desired."

Fanshawe studied his daughter's portrait, still smiling. Without looking at Tavington he remarked, "You are aware, are you not, that I am not the only person to whom your mother might owe money?"

Thinking uneasily of the note his search through his mother's desk had unearthed, Tavington sighed. "Yes. I daresay we shall soon be hearing from her creditors."

"Indeed. When I was first approached about this business—I will not say by whom—it was made clear to me that if I were not satisfied by the offered restitution, others might be. Others who were owed a thousand pounds, or five hundred, or fifty."

Tavington felt ill, and looked away. Fanshawe continued, still gazing at the portrait. "Others who—I must say—might not have been satisfied with simply gazing on the young lady as she slept, and would neither have had the ability nor the inclination to offer her marriage afterwards."

"I see," said Tavington, after a long silence.

Fanshawe turned to him, with a delighted expression. "I am so glad we understand one another, sir. We shall, after all, be brothers. Miss Rutledge is rescued from the aforementioned fate, and instead, shall be treasured as a pearl of great price. And I shall have something better than a bowl of roses to brighten my home."

"I hope you will permit your wife to see mine. Mrs. Tavington is devoted to Letty, and it will break her heart if—"

"I quite understand. The business of attempting to shoot me? Quite understandable, given the circumstances. No, I won't hold it against the lady. Of course, I do plan on a wedding trip of some duration. Lady Fanshawe must visit my principal country seat, and become acquainted with a few of the more remarkable sights of the kingdom."

"When did you think to marry?"

"Well—let us see… Tomorrow?"

_"Tomorrow!" _

Fanshawe laughed. "I am seventy-one years old, Colonel. I haven't much time!" More seriously, he added, "You are right, of course. Perhaps the Archbishop will not have time to attend to my application for a special license that quickly. Friday, then. A small affair, of course. Large weddings are so vulgar. I shall invite my good old friend Lord Rowley, if he is able to rise from his deathbed. You will want your family to attend, I daresay."

Tavington could imagine Jane's response to all of this. "I do not think it wise to make plans for the wedding itself without consulting Miss Rutledge and Mrs. Tavington. I shall suggest Friday, and if they concur, I shall send a note to you forthwith."

"Oh—" said Fanshawe thoughtfully. "There is another matter that needs your approval, which you might not have delved deeply enough into the contract to divine. If the future Lady Fanshawe should have issue, and if I were to go to my reward prior to said child's majority, I would like you—and Mr. Protheroe--to undertake the guardianship."

Tavington frowned.

"I can see your hesitation," observed Lord Fanshawe. "You think it would naturally fall to my son. I think—that would be unwise, don't you?"

"Perhaps." Tavington cleared his throat. "I believe I can understand your reasoning."

"Then we are in perfect accord."

-----

_"Friday!"_ Jane's look of horror was exactly what Tavington had expected. Letty, too was wide-eyed. Jane waved her hands, and protested, "There will be no time for preparations—for wedding clothes—for anything!"

Tavington turned to his sister-in-law. "Despite that, Mr. Protheroe and I believe it would be best. Lord Fanshawe is granting you very generous pin money, and you will be able to obtain 'wedding clothes' after your marriage. Do you consent to be married on Friday? I am certain a wedding breakfast can be arranged. It will be a small wedding only—just our family here, and an old friend of Fanshawe's."

Letty asked curiously, "About how much in pin money?"

Tavington could see her thinking through her wardrobe, trying to arrange and economize, and then he told her the amount. "Eight hundred pounds a year."

Letty's hands flew to her mouth. "Oh, my!"

Jane's jaw sagged. It was more than half their own yearly income. Letty's life would be lavish on a scale he knew his wife had not yet comprehended. He told them the rest of the provisions made for Letty, except for the money to be settled on her future children. At the moment, it seemed indelicate, and he feared it would distress Jane.

Letty's great dark eyes were enormous, as she began to realize what it all meant. "Yes," she said. "I can be married on Friday. Lord Fanshawe is so kind to think of all of those things to protect me. He must be a very good, generous man. And you all say I must marry him anyway, so I think the sooner, the better."

Jane did not try to contradict her, but her attempt to smile was rather pitiful, Tavington thought.

And so the arrangements were quickly made. Letty's only demand was that the ceremony itself should take place in a church. The rector of St. Michael's, Mortimer Square, was contacted and proved agreeable. The wedding would take place at ten o'clock, and then everyone would return to Number Twelve for a wedding breakfast. Then the bride and groom would go to Fanshawe's house in St. James Square for a night, and then embark on an extended tour of England, visiting historic sites on the road to Somerset, spending time at Salton Park, Fanshawe's great country house. The sights and amusements of Bath were then not far distant, and Fanshawe planned to introduce Letty to them.

Fanshawe had engaged a lady's maid and a sewing maid to serve his new bride. The two women were sent over to Mortimer Square for Letty's approval. Both were French, sisters in fact: Julie and Véronique Maupin. Their English was good, and their manner gentle. A fortunate choice, since Letty would not have refused them, anyway, lest they be left without employment. While there, the two sisters found themselves happily pressed into service in the morning room, helping Letty and Pullen trim a fabulous hat that Letty would wear to her wedding. It used some of the fabric left over from her elegant best gown, which was obviously what would have to serve as her wedding dress.

Protheroe could not stay longer, but promised to return the following day and hear their report of Sir John Elliott's visit. They all dreaded the outcome of the examination. Caroline and Penelope, who had been almost invisible all day, emerged from their rooms and waited in the drawing room for the doctor to arrive, twisting their hands, looking very miserable. Tavington sent to Jane, asking her attendance upstairs in the drawing room, telling her enough of the situation that she came soon, only stopping long enough to give Letty a word about her errand.

Letty gave a nod, glad not to be included in the family council. The last few days had filled her with dread of Lady Cecily. She was like the worst sort of slave-master: arbitrary and incomprehensible. She had finally gone too far, and her sons were putting a stop to her domestic tyranny. Something Jane had whispered to her earlier led her to believe that they thought the lady might be mad. Letty was no judge of that, but she could see that the family was very embarrassed by their mother's behavior. Lady Cecily had done some good things for Letty, which the girl did not forget: seeing that she was beautifully dressed and that she had Mr. Bellini to teach her. The past few days, however, had been turbulent. New people had crowded in to pay calls on them, their curiosity piqued after that man from the _Morning Post_ had come and talked to them, and had wanted to see Jane's pistol. It would be been entertaining, if it had not been ruined by the evenings. Lady Cecily had wanted Letty to entertain the gamesters coming to the house. It was worse than the African Ball in Charlestown—men smirking at her, touching her, treating her like chattel. When Mrs. Tavington had quarreled with Lady Cecily, Letty had never been so relieved in her life. Lady Cecily might be powerful here, but Letty still thought she was safest obeying her sister.

And so it had proved. They had not been evicted from the house, because Lady Cecily did not dare evict her son's wife behind his back. Badly as Colonel Tavington had behaved, he would surely not permit his wife to be turned away from his home. But it had all become very insecure, all very unstable. Letty was not sure how long they could continue to live in this tense situation. In the end, something would happen—something possibly catastrophic. Colonel Tavington's flirtation with Lady Sattersby had shaken Letty profoundly. If he could not be trusted to be true to his own wife, what protection had Letty, who was only a half-sister, a former slave, and a poor relation? The night before had been a dream, frightening and fantastical. Lord Fanshawe had addressed her with the deepest respect, and begged for her hand in marriage. If she were married, she would be safe. If she were married in a church, with all the legalities observed, Lord Fanshawe could never renounce her. If he signed the contract giving her money and a house, she would always be secure. She would be a titled lady—and perhaps—she hardly dared to think of it, she might have a child of her own, instead of tending all her life to other people's children. _A little girl! Oh, if I could only have a little girl! I'd sing her to sleep, and I'd dress her so fine… _

Very secretly, she found another wonderful reason to accept the kind old nobleman. If Letty had money and a house, she could help her sister, no matter how despisingly these Tavingtons treated her. If Jane had to leave, she could come and live with Letty! What an awful, marvelous thought. She had never resented Miss Jane in the days of her slavery, but she had envied her. And now, if their situation were to be reversed, and if Letty could be the one to take care of her sister, that was only right, and somehow a perfect revenge on those of the Rutledge family for whom Letty had no love.

-----

"An ailment," pronounced Sir John Elliott, "of many years standing."

He had emerged from Lady Cecily's room, leaving her maid to calm her. Caroline and Penelope had been present at the examination, and were white and shaking with stress and anguish.

Caroline took a deep breath, and asked baldly, "Does my mother suffer the same disease that killed my father?"

Elliott paused. He did not want the women included in this conversation. It was indelicate, and inappropriate for the weaker understanding of their sex to be taxed with the intricacies of modern medicine. "Some complaints of a venereal nature," he disclosed, in simple language that even they could understand, "can lie dormant for decades—especially in the female-- before revealing their horrors to the unknowing victim." He gave a properly dramatic pause, to let his meaning sink in.

Jane regarded him skeptically. Biddy had warned her about doctors, and this puffed-up little man inspired no confidence in her. He seemed no better—well, perhaps much _better-dressed_-- than that horrible ship's surgeon who had spooned rum into her helpless baby. The others, however, were considering his words seriously, and she could see that they believed them.

"Then it's true," cried Penelope. "Our father has killed Mamma. She always said he would!"

"Pen! My dear!" exclaimed Tavington, putting an arm about her for comfort.

"Is there any treatment—mercury, perhaps? Anything--" began Sir John, rather helplessly.

"At this final stage, when the disease has laid siege to the mind, there is none. Her life may be spared some months or even years, but inevitably her reason must diminish, her powers decline. It may be that she will not suffer great pain—"

"Our father suffered," growled Tavington. "He rotted from the inside out—"

"Don't, Will!" pleaded Caroline. "It's too horrible!"

Sir John Elliott was unruffled. It was the duty and the art of the society physician to remain both objective and professionally compassionate. The late Sir Jack Tavington was not the first man to give his wife syphilis. A pity it had gone unrecognized and untreated. Entirely too late to save the lady now, of course.

"I advise that she be kept comfortable, in familiar surroundings—"

"Oh, yes! Of course!" Penelope agreed passionately.

The physician continued. "I can recommend to you a sick nurse of some education and proven discretion. She can be trusted to guard her ladyship against the embarrassments that public view of her condition might incur. She can also be trusted to administer those medicaments that will relieve your mother of discomfort and distress. I, of course, will be at your service, to visit on a regular basis."

"Yes, thank you, sir. You have been of the greatest assistance," broke in Tavington, not liking the oily fellow very much. Medicaments—ha! Elliott meant laudanum, probably. At least the drug would keep Mamma quiet and manageable, and spare her from pain in her joints or face. Her face! Tavington shuddered, hoping that his once-beautiful mother did not decay like so many in the grip of the pox—noses gone, hair gone, hideous caricatures of humanity. Perhaps the laudanum would keep her from feeling the pain of _that,_ too, if it came to it. His skin crawled, thinking of the whores he had known. _"—can lie dormant for decades—" What an inducement to marital fidelity!_

-----

And on Friday, Letty became Laeticia de Vere, Viscountess Fanshawe. Tavington thought that there could hardly have been a more beautiful bride in England, as he gave her away in the church. Radiant in her splendid gown, she smiled on everyone, and already made a creditable showing as a noblewoman.

Early that morning, another gift had arrived from the prospective bridegroom: a magnificent set of sapphires sparked with diamonds. In the box were glittering earrings, and a brooch-pendant so colossal that Tavington told John that he thought the piece could turn a bullet. As a wedding ring, Fanshawe presented Letty with a diamonds surrounding another large sapphire. Tavington thought with shame of the clumsy, ill-fitting piece of loot he had foisted upon Jane that awful day in Charlestown; and he vowed that when their finances permitted, he would give his wife something pretty of her own—even if it were not so rare and costly as Letty's jewels.

It was a small party, as was customary. Jane stood with his sisters, tears running unheeded from her reddened eyes. Lucy held her hand, and Caro and Pen stood close by, offering support and handkerchiefs. John was hung over, and Protheroe maintained a pleasantly grave demeanour, befitting a responsible lawyer.

Letty was sorry that Jane was so upset. Her sister had told her that she did not have to marry Lord Fanshawe, that she would stand by her and defy society, even if there were a scandal. But Letty did not _want_ to refuse Lord Fanshawe.

She loved her sister, and thought her very clever about many things. However, Letty did not see that Jane was a very sound judge of men--particularly husbands. She did not want to hurt her by pointing it out, but Jane had chosen a man mostly for his looks, and in Letty's opinion he had not treated her very well. Jane had asked Colonel Tavington to marry her, and he had been glad to marry a rich woman, but sometimes he just took his wife for granted.

With that lesson before her, Letty decided to choose differently. Instead of asking, she was the one asked. Her husband was wealthy and could provide for her, instead of living off his wife's money. He knew a great deal about the sort of things that Letty liked and was learning to value. When the sapphires arrived, and their beauty was revealed, Letty was sure she had made the right decision. It was not just because the jewels were expensive. Lord Fanshawe had remembered that blue was her favorite color. Most men would not have troubled themselves.

Yes, her husband was old. But he was also wise. He had been handsome--it was obvious to anyone. In his youth, he had probably been as handsome as the Colonel was now. Everyone grew old, if they lived long enough. He was kind and considerate, and had offered her a place in the world of her very own. As she repeated her vows, she was filled with confidence, and hope for the future.

Tavington was touched at the sight of Letty's radiant smiles. He had not many good deeds to boast of, but he was proudest of giving Letty her freedom and bringing her to England. She had come into her own here. Perhaps, if things had gone better--if she had come out during the Season--perhaps she might have met a more suitable man. But who could say? She seemed happy enough. Fanshawe looked—well, perhaps _five_ years younger than usual.

With Fanshawe was his old partner in mischief, Lord Rowley—he of the bawdy name and the even bawdier reputation. The old villain leaned on his walking-stick, needing its support, since he certainly appeared to have one foot in the grave. He grinned at the proceedings like the specter at the feast. Fanshawe himself looked like the picture of health compared to his friend, but the contrast of his age with Letty's blooming young beauty was jarring, to say the least.

They had left Mamma at home, naturally. Elliott's recommended nurse, Mrs. Watkins, had arrived the day before, and had assumed her tasks without hesitation. She was perfectly respectful to her charge—and perfectly immovable to Lady Cecily's pleas and threats. There had been a great deal of noise at first, but the screams from his mother's apartments had quieted after tea was brought. Tavington wondered if Mrs. Watkins had drugged it. The thought made him very sad, but there was nothing else to be done.

John was depressed, too. He had made his list, and started on his letters, and plainly had never done anything he disliked more. He would need all of Tavington's help to get through the miserable task.

His sisters presented their own difficulties. Caro and Pen were terribly conflicted: filled with guilt and pity for their mother, and overjoyed to see their sister again. No doubt that joy made them feel even more guilty. Lucy had brought young Ned yesterday, and his sisters were at least partially distracted by the antics of the toddler, who had instantly won their hearts. Perhaps all would be well in time, he hoped. _People can adjust to anything. _He glanced at his wife again, and felt another pang of remorse.

She looked really quite terrible. His sisters had organized a wedding breakfast that would follow the ceremony, for Jane had proved unequal to it. He had not been able to find her on arriving home from Horse Guards the previous afternoon, and had finally tracked her down to the nursery, where she was asleep in one of the children's beds, looking very pale. Moll had told him to leave her alone-- that sleep was the best thing for her at the moment.

"She's feeling mighty low, Colonel," the tall woman said, fearlessly looking him in the eye, brooking no opposition. "This wedding business is right hard on her."

Tavington was troubled that his standing in Moll's eyes, too, had diminished. He had made a hash of things lately. The whole 'falling in love 'nonsense had proved as stupid and dangerous as he had always thought it would be, and perhaps more trouble than it was worth. Kitty was certainly lovely, but he now wished he had at least shown a modicum of discretion. If he had, perhaps he would be better able to comfort his grieving wife.

The ceremony was quickly over. James Lionel Mowbray de Vere, Viscount Fanshawe, took Laeticia Rutledge for better for worse—or more to the point, in Tavington's opinion, in sickness and in health. He wondered how many years Fanshawe had before him. It would be unfortunate if Letty became a nurse instead of a wife and mother. Nonetheless, she was well provided for, and when the articles of the settlement were signed he felt some comfort in that.

Caro and Pen had been anxious over the breakfast. Apparently there had been some little trouble with the household expenses. Nonetheless, they had worked wonders, and a very handsome feast was laid before the wedding party.

"To your very good health!" said Sir John, as he toasted the new couple. "I wish you joy."

Tavington was relieved that old Lord Rowley was behaving himself, and not embarrassing everyone with the sort of toasts he would have exchange with Fanshawe in his youth--or in the youth of Mad Jack Tavington, for that matter.

The newly wedded couple did not linger over the meal. All too soon, they were getting ready to depart. Letty's few possessions had been carted away to Fanshawe's mansion early in the morning. There many bows and courteous words exchanged. There were many whispers and kisses among the women—and more tears from Jane.

"Letty," Jane said anxiously, clutching at her sisters arm, "If he isn't kind to you, you know you can always come back. I'm afraid--" Distressed, she was unable to speak further.

"But _I'm_ not afraid," Letty replied serenely."I'll be all right, honey. You'll see." She donned her spectacular hat again, adjusting the set of it very exactly with the aid of a long looking glass, and then kissed her sister goodbye.

"But you will write to me, won't you?" Jane pleaded, her voice cracking.

Letty looked astonished at the thought. "I've never written a letter. I--I'm not sure I know how--." Seeing her sister's forlorn face, she promised, "Yes, I'll write. Just don't laugh at me, even if I sound silly!"

The bride and groom climbed into Fanshawe's splendid coach. It was in the newest fashion, heavily gilded, and drawn by four pure white horses. Letty leaned out, smiling, her plumes waving in the stiffening breeze. The sky darkened. A few drops sprinkled those gathered to farewell the couple. Tavington stood by Jane, patiently waiting for the coach to turn out of sight. Only then could his unhappy wife be persuaded to get out of the chilly rain and sit with him by the fire.

* * *

**Note:** The title refers to Hogarth's great series of paintings depicting an arranged married between a debauched aristocrat ("Lord Squanderfield") and a wealthy tradesman's daughter. The six paintings show the sorry progress of the marriage from boredom and expense, through venereal disease and adultery, ending with the husband killed by the wife's lover in a squalid brawl; and then finally Lady Squanderfield committing suicide after her lover is hanged, while her greedy father steals her wedding ring from her dying hand. The only person grieving is her little orphaned daughter, already ravaged by the congenital syphilis contracted from her reckless parents. 

A "rowley" was a euphemism for a male member. One of Charles the Second's aliases was "Mr. Rowley."

Not many people go insane and die of tertiary syphilis anymore, but before the twentieth century it was often fatal. It's been referred to as "The Great Imitator," because its symptoms are often mistaken for other diseases.

"Bedlam" comes from Bethlem Royal Hospital, where 18th century ladies and gentleman paid admission to see the insane. Visitors were allowed to use their walking-sticks to prod the inmates into amusingly enraged behavior. The term was used to refer to any mental institution.

Most 18th century weddings were intimate affairs, even among the rich and noble.

**Next:--Chapter 41: A Family Council**


	41. A Family Parliament

**Chapter 41: A Family Parliament**

Lord and Lady Fanshawe were gone. Even the last rumble of their carriages wheels had blended into the constant background murmur of London. The rain was coming down harder now, sheeting the windows of the morning room. Twisting ropes of water sprayed from the downspouts. "Well, good luck to her," Tavington muttered, as he sat beside Jane on the comfortable old sofa. Jane said nothing at all, and simply stared listlessly into the fire. John came in, talking quietly with Protheroe, Caroline, and Lucy.

"--I've been making a list of them. I can't very well write to the women myself without seeming—"

"Oh, Jane, my dear!" cried Caroline. "I hope you are not wet. You could catch a dreadful cold!"

"No—" Jane said, rather distractedly, "I am not wet. Just bewildered, I suppose. Where is Penelope?"

"She has gone upstairs to see if Mamma is all right." Her voice lowered. "Mamma was so angry that she was not allowed to attend the wedding."

Tavington groaned faintly. _If anything could have made the day worse—_

"When she comes down," John said, "We'll need to talk."

"Of course," Caroline agreed soothingly. "In the meantime, let us have some fresh, hot tea."

There was little conversation. Everyone seemed to be in a kind of suspense, and the cups of tea were clung to as vital occupations for the hands and mind. But blessedly, Penelope came in soon.

"Mamma saw Lord and Lady Fanshawe leave from her window. She complimented her hat. She's rather pleased about it all, and not just because of—well, I'm sorry, Jane dear, but she genuinely thinks she has helped Letty, you see." Tactfully, Penelope did not repeat everything her mother had said about plain and jealous sisters, and about Lady Cecily's pride in making a fine match for pretty Miss Rutledge.

"I suppose I can imagine that." Jane set down her cup, not wanting any more.

"Look here," John interrupted. "I don't know how to begin this, so I'm just going to start talking. When one of you has a good idea, you can shout it out. The fact is, the old woman has not been taking care of her finances as she ought. We believe she has considerable debts, but we're not sure to whom. We know she's owed money. Will and I went through her room before the nurse came and found bills and notes and all matter of important papers put in the oddest places."

Jane had a moment of insight. "Did you look in the water closet?"

"I beg your pardon?" asked Tavington, rather shocked.

"Lady Cecily dislikes anyone else being there. Perhaps she has hidden things there too."

"By Jove!" John exclaimed. "That's a good thought! Here, Caro—take some paper and write down the minutes of this meeting. We'll search the water closet first thing."

"How very official!" laughed Lucy.

"Why not?" Penelope considered. "It is a meeting of our family parliament and we must keep proper records. Are the ladies permitted to vote?"

"I rather think it important that you _do_," Tavington replied, with an affectionate smile. "There aren't that many Tavingtons—or their connections—" he amended with a nod to the Protheroes. "I think our current crisis will take all of our united resources to resolve."

"Right!" John agreed. "That's the spirit! Each of us can do something to get us through the worst of it. It's my fault that we also have all the repairs to Wargrave at the same time, so it's only right that I do more. That means staying in London, I'm afraid. My only income at the moment is dealing at White's. And I win more than I lose. On the other hand, I must suggest, dear brother, that you give up gambling for the duration, for you always lose more than you win."

Tavington nodded, resigned. "Too true, I confess. My army pay will cover my mess fees and other expenses, and give us a reliable income for things that cannot be bought any longer on credit."

"Like food!" Penelope told them. "The butcher will not extend any more credit to us, and we really must pay him. The poulterer and greengrocer too. I'm afraid that we must reduce some of the excess at our table. And John showed me the dressmaker's bills already! New clothes are out of the question for the rest of the quarter."

Caroline said, "John asked me to write to the women whose notes Mamma was holding. It is certainly a potential resource. John is writing to the men."

"—And Protheroe agreed to follow our letters up with threatening missives of his own if we're ignored."

Protheroe nodded, and Lucy squeezed his arm approvingly.

More darkly, Tavington added, "And if that doesn't work, I can always call them out—the men, anyway! That should shake some of the money out of their purses! Oh—and perhaps Caroline should be assisting Mamma with all of her correspondence," he suggested. "She is likely to say all sorts of horrible things about us."

"Yes, I'll do it," Caroline agreed, looking unhappy. "But I will discuss it with her. Mamma is ill, but she is not dead, and she ought to have her feelings consulted, as far as possible."

"I'll take over all of the housekeeping," Penelope offered hastily, glad that Caroline had offered to deal with the letters. Mamma's friends could be so unpleasant.

Jane was silent, feeling rather left out. She was not--absolutely not--going to give up her little nest-egg to pay that woman's debts. What else could she do to help?

"Well, I think that's all we can do until we know more about the debts," John said. "There's no need to start selling anything off until we know where we stand."

"Perhaps I should cancel the portrait commission with Reynolds," Tavington considered. But his sisters cried out against that.

"Oh, William! We were so looking forward to seeing it!" Caroline mourned.

John agreed with his sisters. "Don't cancel it, old fellow. You haven't even scheduled your sittings. Go ahead and get it done. By the time Reynolds is finished, we should be flush again. Pity though-- trust Mamma to engage the most expensive painter in England!"

"Very well, then," Tavington agreed, secretly very pleased. The portrait had become important to him as something to remind society of the war in America. John was right. They would only have to pay on delivery, and the work had not yet even begun.

Rivers made a quiet appearance. "The post, Sir John. You told me to bring it to you at once."

"Yes! There's a good fellow, Rivers." John sorted through the letters. "Something from Elliott. I thought he was coming round to today to see how Mrs. Watkins was managing." He broke the seal, and glanced over the contents. "Can't come today. Be here tomorrow. Oh! Here's something! Elliott's heard a rumor about smallpox in the City."

"Smallpox?" Penelope asked, horrified. "The children!"

Lucy hastened to reassure her. "All my servants have had smallpox or have been inoculated. I shall keep Ned in until the disease has run its course. But you, Jane—perhaps—"

"Mrs. Royston has had smallpox. I have seen the scars. As to the other servants, I don't know. I was inoculated myself many years ago. My governess insisted upon it. I really don't know what else—"

Caroline murmured, "Mamma always kept us in the country until we were old enough to be inoculated—"

"Of course!" John cried. "Mrs. Tavington should go to Wargrave!"

Jane looked up, surprised. Her husband was looking concerned and displeased, but the others were chattering about Sir John's very good idea.

"—it is such a healthy spot—"

"—far from infection—"

"—and Mrs. Tavington hasn't seen it yet. I wanted her to ride over that day, but Uncle—"

Tavington said impatiently, "All this is very well, but Jane has only been home a few days. It seems very hard that she should be sent off again, for who knows how long—"

"But Will!" his brother broke in. "It's an excellent idea! Your wife is a clever woman. She'll be there to oversee the new servants and to keep us informed about the progress of the repairs. And it really will be better and safer for the boy. It's a splendid notion."

Caroline looked conflicted. "Of course we will miss dear Jane, but nothing must endanger little William Francis." She turned to Lucy. "Are you certain you would not prefer to go to the country, too, dearest?"

"Quite sure," Lucy replied. "I have prepared for just such situations, and there is no need for me to go right now." Thinking that Jane seemed very unhappy, she tried to think of something cheerful. "And, now, my dear Jane, if you are not too fascinated by our family Parliament, I was hoping you would give me a peep at the baby! We will let the others determine matters of strategy!"

"Oh, yes!" cried Jane, her face clearing a little. William Francis was such a comfort. "I must show you his new cap. I made it myself after a fashion I saw in a shop on Jermyn Street!"

The two ladies climbed the steps, letting the voices of the Tavington council fade behind them. Lucy put a kind hand on Jane's arm.

"You look so sad, my dear. I know your sister's wedding was not—what you might have hoped. Edward assured me that at least she will be very well provided for."

"Yes—there is that! But Lucy, I am so bewildered by it all. We have been in England only since mid-September, and already so many of my hopes and dreams have been overthrown. I have lost my sister, and William—" She stopped, not sure how much she could say.

"Jane! You must think of it that way. You have not lost your sister. She has gone on her wedding trip, but in a few months she will be back, full of all the places she has seen. You will visit back and forth, and how delightful it will be! It is not like my long exile from my family at all!"

They had reached the second floor, where Lucy, and then Letty, had occupied the Dutch Room. Lucy was reminded of it, and said. "Would it be too horrible if we were to see my old room? Would it make it worse for you?"

"No." Jane shook her head. "Letty was only there a few weeks, so it has no painful associations for me. She enjoyed it very much, but you should find it much as you left it, now that her things are gone."

It was only a short distance down the quiet hall. Lucy quickened her step and flung the door open with an excited laugh. "Oh! It is just as I remember it! I loved this room so much. I've found some Delft tiles, and plan to decorate my bedchamber with them, but it will not be quite the same." She noticed the broken pane, covered with paper until the glazier could arrive and repair it. "What happened there? Did a bird fly into the window?"

"No." Jane muttered in embarrassment. "I shot at Lord Fanshawe and missed."

Lucy gaped, and then burst out laughing. "You really shot at him? Really? I never heard of such a thing! You are so brave! I no longer question anything the papers say about you! What a heroine!"

"It was terribly stupid of me. I completely lost my head. I thought he had harmed Letty—and he had, in a way, for she was forced to marry him—the wicked old—"

"Don't, Jane," Lucy counseled her. "Such anger does no good. They are married, and whatever her difficulties, you must help her make the best of it. And in a prudential light, it is a very great match for her."

Jane sat heavily down on the bed, and noticed that it was more comfortable than her own. "I never thought Letty would marry. I thought she would always live with me and be my companion. I never imagined her marrying at all."

Lucy sat beside her, looking grave. "Mamma did not want me to marry, either. She wanted me to stay with her and be her companion. Do you think that was right?"

Jane was thunderstruck at the comparison. She felt anger, and then confusion, and then shame in a single moment. "You must think me horribly selfish. I confess I never thought of Letty marrying. In South Carolina—I don't know how much you know—Letty could never have married anyone, legally, at least. I simply took her for granted." She put her head in her hands, and whispered, "I see now how dreadful that was. To think of her, not as a person, not as a woman. I see now that she always wanted to marry. Perhaps she has dreamed of having children. That would explain—"

Jane suddenly understood many things more clearly—among them that William Francis had sometimes depressed Letty. She began to cry again, feeling all of Letty's sadness at her dependence and poverty, her longing for a home of her own. "I thought her less than myself—less important—less intelligent—less worthy of attention and respect. And thus am I punished for it."

"Oh, come!" Lucy said, trying to rally Jane's spirits. "Where's all the heroine's courage? Letty is not angry or resentful. Nor is her situation without fault. She is a viscountess and a wealthy woman, but she is also married to an old man who must regard her to some extent as a pet or a project. She seems to learn quickly, though!"

"Yes! Letty is—I never thought of her as clever, but she is, in many ways. She has picked up manners and music very quickly. I do not think she will cause Lord Fanshawe any embarrassment."

"Indeed! She may surprise even him with how well she assumes her position. Good luck to her! And now," said Lucy, giving Jane an affectionate pat. "think of yourself, and how to make the best of _your_ situation. I know that Mamma was not very nice to you, but she was not nice to me either, and yet here I am, happy and healthy, and with a house of my own and a son and a husband to love—and who love me!"

Jane sighed deeply. "You are very fortunate."

"I know that you do not yet have a house of your own, but you already have the husband and son!"

Jane stared at the floor. "Yes, I have William Francis. Sometimes I cannot wait until he can speak!"

"Have you quarreled with William, Jane?" Lucy asked, picking up on Jane's refusal to include William as a source of happiness. "Was it about Mamma? You can see that he now understands that she was not in her right mind—"

"It is not just that—thought I felt he did not stand up for me against her as a husband should," Jane said frankly, not caring to defend the indefensible. She would burst if she did not tell someone. "William is—a very great flirt. When we were at Colneford, he and a lady... Well, he hurt me very badly—ignored me and neglected me in order to spend time with another. I understood it in a way—she was so much prettier than I, and I know that she's much more what he would have liked in a wife. It hurt horribly all the same, and I cannot feel for him what I once did." She got to her feet, and brushed the stubborn tears from her eyes. "Forgive me for abusing your brother to you. It was wrong of me. I shall never speak of it again. Let's go to the nursery now."

Lucy seized her arm. "Jane! How terrible for you! I don't wonder that you are in such low spirits. I do not excuse William—he is so handsome, and has always liked to be admired by women. It was wrong of him to behave in a way that would wound you. I hope you told him that such behavior was inappropriate. Some men are very thick-headed if not set straight. I imagine it never occurred to him to think how it might seem to you."

"I'm sure it didn't," Jane agreed, a little tremulously. "But don't you see—that makes it worse. It shows he doesn't care enough about me to consider my feelings. And then he stayed behind to be with the lady, and then I was set upon by those ruffians. It was as if he didn't care what became of me!" She began to cry again in earnest. "I know that he only married me for my money, but that is not why I married him!"

Lucy took her in her arms, and held her tight. "My poor Jane! William is a blockhead! You know that, don't you? He's a vain and silly blockhead, but you mustn't give up on him. He can be trained with time and care—trained like a spirited hunter! He does care about you! If you knew how he speaks of you to others—how he talks about how good and clever and brave you are. He talks always about how you saved him. Make clear to him that the only woman he can flirt with is you!"

"You make is sound so easy! I have felt so out of place here. Your uncle was kind, but I felt that I did not quite fit in—"

"Nonsense!" Lucy's eyes blazed. "It you do not fit in there, then you must make a place where you do! I think it would be a very good thing for you to go to Wargrave!"

"Really? Because of the smallpox—"

"Yes—there is that! It would be safer and healthier—for you too!" Lucy walked over the mantle, and studied the lay of the blue and white tiles. "William will miss you sorely. He will miss the baby. You have made a name for yourself as a brave and independent woman, and people are likely to ask why you were called upon to defend yourself. That will make William feel guilty, which is a very good thing. William doesn't feel guilty often enough, and it's the best way to make him behave. And then you will be such a help to the family, watching over the restoration of the estate. It will be an occupation for you, and—"

"What?"

"You will love Wargrave! I, Lucy Protheroe, prophesy that you will love it! It's the finest place in all the world, excepting my house on Tudor Street. How I would love to go there again, but Edward cannot leave town just now, and I cannot be without him. I know! Perhaps we could come for a fortnight at Christmas!" She laughed again. "Listen to me, inviting myself to John's house! But I should love it of all things!"

"It sounds delightful, but we shall have to see if the house is in good enough repair. I don't think you—or your husband—would enjoy a dripping ceiling." Lucy enthusiasm was infectious, and Jane felt herself beginning to smile.

"Lord, no! But I know you'll set it right! Now let's see the baby! I must report back to my Ned. He was so put out that he was not invited to the wedding. He wanted to visit the baby himself. He speaks of your son as 'My Friend!"

Jane laughed. "How sweet!"

"Yes, I think so. I love to think about them, growing up and playing together and having all sorts of adventures. Come! I need to see William Francis this very minute, and that intrepid nursemaid of yours too!"

-----

The conversation with Lucy helped Jane a great deal. Lucy, of course, thought better of her brother than Jane did, but that was only right. Jane was still very angry with him, and considered her exile at Wargrave a good opportunity to get away from William Tavington and all the contradictory emotions he roused in her. Either absence would make his heart grow fonder, or her wounded affection would fade a little with time and distance. Jane concurred with Lucy that guilt seemed to inspire better behavior in William. He, it seemed, _was_ feeling somewhat guilty, and was hanging about all through dinner and afterwards, touching and smiling, and wanting to be friends or sweethearts or what have you.

Tavington was indeed concerned about Jane's low spirits. The Wargrave plan had some merit, but he feared that Jane would look upon it as an attempt to get rid of her—to send her away into oblivion in the country. She had had so many hard knocks in the past few weeks that she deserved something pleasant. That evening, he tidied himself conscientiously and set out for his wife's bedchamber, determined to please her in the best way he knew.

She called "Come in," to his soft knock, clearly expecting him. She was sitting up in bed reading, looking very young and tired.

He came to her at once, threw off his embroidered banyan, and climbed into bed beside her. "What are you reading?"

_"La Princesse de Clèves."_

"That's right—you read French very well, I recall. What is it about?"

"Suspicion and betrayal."

"Does it end happily?"

"Not in the least." In fact, reading about the unhappiness of the Princess, about her thwarted love for the Duke of Nemours, about the Prince her husband dying, believing himself betrayed—none of it was making her feel any better.

She put the book aside, and prepared herself for her husband's advances without particular enthusiasm. There was a great, Letty-sized hole in her life, and the edges of it were ragged and painful. William could not fill the void, even had he wanted to: he could not be trusted. Over everything hung the horror of Lady Cecily's illness. Jane had understood something of what Sir John Elliott, the haughty little physician, had told the family, but not the details. Jane knew the pox could drive people insane, but why did Lady Cecily not know she was ill? She had wanted to ask someone, and who better than her husband? He might not like the subject brought up at such a moment, but Jane felt she had every right to know the worst.

"Something is preying on my mind. I must speak of it—speak of it once—and I hope you do not refuse to answer."

Tavington hoped she was not going to interrogate him about Kitty again, and was surprised when she asked, "How could your mother be ignorant of her condition? Surely she would have sought treatment before that dreadful disease began to steal her wits!"

"Ah." Tavington grimaced, disliking the ugly subject, but then he looked at Jane again. _She is frightened,_ he realized. _Frightened of suffering my mother's fate._

To some extent he could reassure her. "When the pox is contracted," he told her, after a little hesitation, " the first sign is an ugly sore on the private parts, called a chancre. On a man it would be very obvious, but on a woman it might be—inside—and unknown."

"How horrible."

"Yes—it is a hideous thing."

"And if, as you say, the signs are obvious for a man, your father must have known himself infected."

He cleared his throat, hating this subject. "It is—very likely."

"Monstrous."

He held her close for awhile, not speaking, and then decided that she must be reassured at once, however ridiculous it made him feel. "Here," he said, tossing the bedclothes aside. "You may examine me to your satisfaction."

Embarrassed, she could hardly look at him, but he insisted, inviting her to inspect him minutely, encouraging her to take him in soft little hands, to reacquaint herself with him, and reassure herself that she was in no danger. Besides, it was very enjoyable to be fondled so. He sighed with pleasure, as she handled him more boldly, and what she contemplated became engorged and ready.

Jane scowled at him, but did not stop her play. She felt less frightened now, and had not slept with William in several days. He was not spoiling it by smirks or smugness, but was clearly eager to resume their relations. She scowled again, thinking he was much too sure of himself.

And yet, he knew how to make himself pleasing. Estranged as she felt from him, it was impossible not to take pleasure in the touch of his lips, his hands. He gathered her closely against him, stroking her breasts gently, nipping and licking until she quivered with impatience. Why should she deny herself out of foolish pride? She would be the only one to suffer. This, however badly it reflected on William, was what he did best. He might not have provided her with a home of her own, and he might have a roving eye, but here in their bed he could at least give her some transitory joy.

She gave herself up to it, relaxing back as he pushed her nightshift aside, and slowly eased into her. Once he was in, and secured, and held tightly, Jane wrapped her legs over his, knowing for the next few moments, at least, he was only hers.

Tavington bucked happily inside her, some of his anxiety fading in the mindless pleasure of lying with his own wife in their own bed. It had been days since he had done this with her, and he had missed the comfortable familiarity of it. Jane was such a nice little thing, after all. She knew him best, knowing only him. He arched his back like a cat, stroking her in the long, deep way she liked, leaning on his left elbow so he could pinch a pebbled nipple until Jane squeaked with urgency, and then slipping his fingers down to touch her between her legs. She shuddered and moaned, and squeezed down hard in a way that made him moan in response.

"Oh, don't stop, please!" she pleaded, catching at his wrist. Her hips rocked in time with her muffled whimpers. With deliberate violence, he quickened his pace just as she started to thrash about in her release. She flung his hand aside and dug her fingers into his buttocks, her cries sharpening. Her own vocal pleasure triggered his, and he surrendered to the rush of ecstasy and the victory of renewed possession.

They lay thus, sweaty and entangled, for some time. Jane always took longer to return to herself than he. When she finally gave him the little push at his shoulders that meant "let me breathe," he obliged quickly, hoping that this meant he was forgiven. Jane reached for the clean handkerchief she always kept by the bed, and began to tidy herself. Tavington took it from her, and did it for her, touching her as gently as possible. He laid the handkerchief by, and drew her close for a kiss.

She did not refuse him, but afterwards, said very politely, "Thank you. That was very nice."

She turned on her side, away from him, and snuffed the candle. Tavington's anxiety returned. He took her in his arms and cuddled her close, not wanting her to push him away. "I have missed you, Jane. I am very happy to be with you again. Perhaps the stay at Wargrave is a good idea, but for myself, it will be rather lonely. I promise I shall come out to the country often. It will be very enjoyable to show you all my favorite places."

"Lucy has spoken very glowingly of the house. I am sure I shall be quite all right, and I am perfectly willing to assist your brother. He has been very kind to me."

Eager to encourage this line of thinking, Tavington pointed out other consequences. "John is unlikely to marry, it seems. It the course of nature, the estate would eventually go to William Francis. John has spoken of how much he wants it to be in good order for him."

"Very kind of him to say so, but I don't want to be greedy and think only of inheritances. The place is clearly important to all of you, and it will give me something to do beside feed the baby. William Francis is cutting his first teeth, and suckling him can be a trial sometimes."

"The little villain!" Tavington found a nipple and stroked it soothingly. "If it becomes too painful we shall have to find a wet nurse. I don't want you to be hurt."

She did not answer. His words caused Jane to think about all the ways he had hurt her himself, and they struck her as annoyingly hypocritical. Or perhaps, as Lucy had suggested, he was simply a blockhead. Instead, she spoke into the darkness, carefully casual. "Do you think your brother would object if I invited a companion to Wargrave?"

"Of course not, my dear, but I don't think that Caro or Pen would leave—"

"I was thinking of writing my friend Miss Gilpin and asking her to come to me. I have missed her. Would there be any objection?"

Her voice, in the soft tones of pillow talk, sounded so wistful that Tavington would have granted her every wish. He had not liked the old governess much, and hoped she would not influence his wife against him. On the other hand, he did not want to forbid Jane any comfort she might desire. With what good grace he could muster, he answered, "No. Invite her, by all means. It will do you good to see her again."

"Thank you." She turned away from him more determinedly, and promptly went to sleep, leaving her husband feeling a little unsettled.

-----

Having received permission, Jane did not waste any time.

_October 16, 1781 _

_Number Twelve, Mortimer Square_

_London _

_My dear friend, _

_I received your last epistle, and was much amused at your depiction of your brother and his friend the squire, and the depth of the mud into which they plummeted. "The Joys of the Country!" Well, I cannot laugh much, as I too will be living the bucolic life in but a day or two. _

_After my stay at Colneford Castle, I thought I would be remaining to the city for some time. There was some little trouble on the way home that was ridiculously exaggerated in the foolish newspapers at the time. I am perfectly well, I assure you. Alas, various matters have arisen which require my departure to my brother-in-law's country seat, Wargrave Hall. Between a rumor of smallpox (my little boy, of course, is too young for inoculation), and the need for someone to keep a weather eye on Sir John's restorations, it became apparent that I would be the one to go._

_I shall be quite alone for the greater part of the time. The Colonel will accompany me, but must return to his duties in the capital almost instantly. Lady Cecily has fallen ill, and requires the attendance of her daughters. Sir John, of course, has affairs of state that cannot be slighted. You ask if Letty will not be with me, and I must tell you directly—no, she cannot. Letty is married. _

_Brace yourself, my friend, for the most extraordinary news that you have ever read. Letty attracted the attentions almost instantly of a wealthy peer, Lord Fanshawe. He proposed, and was accepted, and yesterday they were united. If you feel slightly dizzy, imagine my state. There is some disparity in age, and of course great disparity in education and birth, but the viscount offered her a most generous settlement and Letty—now Laeticia de Vere, Viscountess Fanshawe—could not refuse the offer. _

_How strange the world is, and how the Wheel of Fortune turns without warning! Perhaps I am rebuked for past pride and arrogance, for my half-sister is now my senior in wealth and consequence, and will no doubt take precedence of me until the end of our days. _

_That said, I am without a companion, save my trusty servants, Mrs. Royston and Miss Pullen. I am to go to Wargrave Monday, and no doubt will be introduced to the entire establishment (such as it is), but it will be a difficult change for me. There is no vicar nor vicar's wife, either, for Sir John (between us) has been remiss in appointing such an individual, and the parish has been without a head nearly a year! You will never guess who is to supply the deficiency! Do you remember Captain Bordon, the Colonel's clever and cautious boon companion? Yes! The gentleman is still in America, but the Colonel has written to him and he and his wife no doubt will arrive in the next few months! _

_I will have my child and my duties to occupy me, but I will be desperate for an intimate and advisor. My dear, dear Miss Gilpin—could you not find it possible to pay me a visit very soon? I have enclosed a note from my husband's sister, Miss Tavington, explaining the route and the coaches you would take to find me in Essex. Even if you could stay but a fortnight (though I would prefer six fortnights, if you could spare them!) it would be doing me such a kindness! I am told the house is in poor condition, but Sir John gave command to prepare some bedchambers against just such a visit._

_Believe me, my dear friend, yours most affectionately,_

_Jane Tavington _

Very decisively, Jane folded and sealed the letter and sent it off to the post with all haste. It would take over a week to reach its destination, but an express would needlessly alarm her friend. _If I cannot bear a few days of my own company, I am a sorry specimen indeed! _

-----

Jane and Tavington would go to Wargrave on Monday. The plan was that he would return to London Wednesday morning. The time was filled with preparations and morning visits. Mrs. Tazewell called to hear the news of Letty's wedding. She and Jane had already exchanged calls just after Jane had returned from Colneford Castle. She was a pretty, good-natured woman, whose husband could be useful to her own. Jane welcomed the acquaintance, and told the lady the pleasantest version of the marriage possible.

"And so you are going into the country again. That is a pity, for so many people wish to meet you, after hearing of your adventures." She laughed, and Jane admired her remarkably good teeth. "Well, you will certainly be back in London in a few months for the Season, and you can be lionized then!"

"I shall be entirely forgotten by then, I imagine."

"Oh, no! And I shall help to keep your memory green. If I might so presume, I should like to correspond with you, while you are away."

"That would be most kind of you. I shall write to you directly on my arrival."

Bellini called too. He was a natural diplomat, and accustomed to concealing disapproval or disappointment, but Jane could see he was not overjoyed at Letty's marriage. Like a sensible man, however, he tried to put the best face on it.

"Milord Fanshawe is a great connoisseur of the arts. He will value the lady as she deserves. I have been informed that on her return, she will resume her musical studies. You say she looked well at the wedding?"

"Oh, indeed! Letty is always lovely, but she looked particularly beautiful and happy. Lord Fanshawe gave her a magnificent set of sapphires, and she was so delighted with them. Their wedding trip will no doubt expose her to some of the finest sights in the kingdom, and she will be full of art and culture on her return."

Bellini was professionally civil. "No doubt, Madame."

Jane blushed, realizing how silly her words had sounded. "I, too, am leaving London for a time. My family is concerned about rumors of smallpox. I have been inoculated, but my son—"

"I understand, Madame, and I approve your husband's care for you. I suffered the disease long ago, and was lucky to survive, unlike my two brothers. You are wise to be cautious."

Daringly, she asked, "Would you write to me, Signor? I shall be rusticating in the country and shall have need of a little art and culture myself."

His smile grew warmer. "I would be honored to be your newspaper, Madame!"

-----

Had it not been for their straitened circumstances, Jane would have gone a-shopping, at least for new publications to take with her. Wargrave, she was told, had a large library, but she had no idea what books it contained, nor in what condition she might find them. Instead, she raided the library downstairs, with a brisk knock and a head held high. Her courage was unnecessary, for the gentlemen were out, and no one challenged her right to thumb through the pretty editions she selected.

She made a little stack of books that she had heard of, but had never had access to before: Voltaire's _Candide,_ Rousseau's _Le Nouvelle Heloise,_ the plays of Moliere and of Marivaux, _L'Histoire de Manon Lescaut. _Many of the books were considered "racy" or "fast," and she would never have dared to purchase them, but she would be alone in Essex, and who could say her nay? Carefully, she chose books that did not show the signs of frequent use, and so would not be depriving the household of old friends.

Behind some other books, she found a novel whose title made her laugh: _Fanny Hill: The Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure,_ by John Cleland. With rather curdled nostalgia she remembered that day at Cedar Hill and that stupid young officer—what was his name?--who wanted her to read this book with him. She peeped inside the covers, and sputtered with disbelief. This was rather more than simply racy. With a saucy shake of her head, she added it the stack. Perhaps she would learn something new, and give her husband a surprise.

She had some new music to study as well, sonatas by Mr. Haydn, and some pieces by the young Mozart, whom Mr. Bellini admired greatly. She had an empty journal into which she could pour her thoughts, and her little account book to keep close watch on her expenditures. Jane was determined to make the best of what she could not help but regard as her exile in the country. She would read, and practice, and raise her child, and supervise the house. Her isolation need not be complete: she would have her correspondence with her new sisters and her widening circle of friends, like Mrs. Tazewell and Bellini. If she could secure a visit from Miss Gilpin, so much the better.

In fact, she persuaded herself, she was happy to go. She was uncomfortable remaining under the same roof as her mother-in-law, whether the lady was a pitiful invalid now or not. Now and then, she would hear a cry, a protest, and was reminded of Lady Cecily. Her heart swelled with unforgiving resentment. The old lady had done her best to destroy Jane's happiness, and had connived in what could have been her sister's ruin. To some extent she had succeeded, for Jane missed Letty dreadfully, and was not comforted when she imagined Letty not missing her to an equal degree. Lucy's words about Letty burned like fire. Was Jane so selfish? These were very unhappy reflections.

On Sunday, Jane persuaded her sisters-in-law to join her at church, and on her return, Jane was overwhelmed by her husband and Sir John, giving her last-minute advice and little notes to remind her of the state of repairs and improvements.

"I have written to my uncle, too," William told her. "If you have any difficulties that require immediate assistance, send a servant to him. He can be there in two hours."

Jane replied stiffly, disliking the idea of begging for help. "I cannot imagine that I will have any difficulties that I cannot manage. You forget that I have managed large households before. I am not afraid of work—or workmen, for that matter."

Tavington looked at her with some concern. Jane had withdrawn from him a little, and was not her open, candid self with him anymore. There was a curious barrier between them. It was as if they had gone back to an earlier stage of their relationship when they were ceremonious acquaintances. Not even nights in their bed had entirely won her over. She enjoyed their intimacies, but then thanked him politely and went directly to sleep. All the old tenderness seemed to be gone, and Tavington found himself disliking their new understanding. Jane had become very independent of him. There was nothing he could complain of, for she was perfectly civil, if damnably distant. And it was his own fault, after all.

Time, he hoped, would heal her wounds. She would find Wargrave interesting, and would enjoy the country greatly. Her own two servants would go with her of course. Moll Royston had all the packing for the baby and herself in hand, and had made a sound suggestion, when he had come up to visit the baby.

"How many men are on the place? Might be wise to bring a stout fellow along to be Mrs. Tavington's footman. Seems like everybody else will be working on the house. They won't know her anyway. A brave fellow who answers to her would be a mighty good idea."

Wanting to make friends with Moll again, he listened to the suggestion with a mind to indulge her. "Who would you suggest?" He forbore to smirk. "Tom Young?"

She fixed him with a steady eye. "He'd do, I reckon. He knows the footman business, and he's good in a fight."

Tavington decided that he was forgiven enough to sit down and ask for the tale of the battle with the highwaymen. Of all the participants, Moll was the most likely to tell it coherently, without embellishment. And tell it she did, like a clear-headed soldier giving a report of an action. Tavington was suitably impressed by their restraint in the use of their firearms, and praised Tom's courage and activity.

Moll thawed a little more. "Most likely this trip will do Mrs. Tavington good. She ain't going to be at someone else's beck and call, and if anybody fusses her, she can send them packing. As I see it, Colonel, the main thing is that the men working on the place need to know that she's giving the orders. Wouldn't do for her to feel _ignored or looked down on." _

Fidgeting a little in the hard wooden chair, Tavington assured her, "She will be mistress of all she surveys."

"Well, now. That don't sound so bad."

* * *

**Notes:** _La Princesse de Clèves _was published anonymously in 1678, and is thought to have been written by Mme. de la Fayette. It is one of the first modern psychological novels. Instead of improbable adventures with a formulaic happy ending, it has a highly realistic plot, introspective exploration of the characters' thoughts and feelings, and a somewhat ambiguous but decidedly _not _happy ending. 

Thank you to all my reviewers, both signed in and anonymous. I appreciate your feedback. Some of you have very good ideas!

**Next—Chapter 42: The Joys of the Country **


	42. The Joys of the Country

**Note to my readers: **_This story is getting a very large number of hits, but not a proportionate number of reviews. Here is my equivalent of a public television fundraiser: just for this chapter, could I get a review from every reader? I really am very interested in your responses to this story, and your feedback is the only remuneration I receive for my work. So please, hit the button, and say hello, at least! And now, enjoy the chapter! It's one of my favorites._

**Chapter 42: The Joys of the Country **

The passing countryside was dark green with the rain that had fallen early that morning. "I feel as if I know this road already," Jane remarked, looking out the window. An earthy scent rose up on the chilly wind.

Tavington was pleased that she was so interested. "And you will know it even better in years to come."

Moll leaned out of the window on the other side. "Those trees—I know _them_. Are we close to the Bell?"

"Not far. We must be fairly close to—where you were set upon."

"Well!" declared Jane. "Any outlaws seeing this carriage will know to stay far away! I still have my pistol!"

It was right under her seat, in its own little box, next to her husband's pistols, in their own very elaborate case. The thought made her feel very secure.

Tavington's lips twitched. "Yes, my dear. You still have your pistol. Where did you get your pistol, by the way?"

"Moll helped me buy it in Charlestown, didn't you, Moll?"

"That I did, ma'am, and taught you to use it, too!"

"You see?" Jane demanded archly.

They had had a small disagreement about the pistol and the box. In the end, Tavington knew her too displeased with him to try to take her weapon away. It would only add fuel to the notion that he wished her harm. Besides, she had used it fairly well against the highwayman. Had she actually shot Lord Fanshawe, however…

"That's it!" Moll called out. "That's the place! See those big old chestnuts?"

"I think you're right, Moll!" Jane turned excitedly to her maid. "Pullen, look! Doesn't this look like the place where they came out of the trees?"

"Don't know, ma'am," Pullen replied, turning sickly green at the memory. "I was that terrified. I was cowering, like, on the floor of the coach the whole time." She shuddered, and pretended to be intent on sewing Jane a new garment.

Jane had determined that she was going to need something warm and not too grand to wear about Wargrave, while she helped supervise cleaning and repairs. Among her old clothes was a silk gown with a broad floral stripe. It was too small and the wrong style. Pullen had picked it apart and was now refashioning it as a carico—a jacket-like short gown—that Jane could wear with either the woolen petticoat from her green habit, or with the petticoat that she usually wore with her emerald silk gown. The carico would be lined and quilted, and Jane would not have to wear a cloak indoors.

For October in England was not the October she knew from South Carolina. This seemed more like winter, and Jane was feeling the chill. Moll, too, drew her cloak close around her. Jane was concerned for her servants. If absolutely necessary she would get them something warm for newer, heavier winter clothes. She could dig into her tin box, or perhaps at Christmas, when the interest on her money was paid, she could give them each a handsome present of warm wool. Or she could order them each a quilted petticoat.

Pullen must be tired of grey. A lady's maid could expect to receive her mistress' castoffs, but Jane did not have an extensive enough wardrobe to _have_ castoffs. _Possibly that sprigged muslin, though_, Jane considered. _It's useless to me now, and not at all fashionable,_ _but it will be a pretty thing for Pullen in the spring. She is as small as I, and it will be something fresh and new… _

Tavington leaned out of the coach to shout to the coachman. "Scoggins! Up ahead the road branches off. You'll see a small lane going west. Take it, and look sharp. It is not in very good condition." He sat back against the green cushions, and remarked, "Like so much else at Wargrave. The repairs to the house must come first."

"I cannot disagree, unless I have to walk all the way," Jane answered carelessly.

He did not answer, and instead looked for the first glimpse of the Hill and the village. Jane was pretending to be unimpressed, but he could not wait for her to see Wargrave Hall. Even on a rainy day, its grandeur was certain to move her. As they approached their destination, he began a running description: of this or that one's cottage, and the High Pasture, and the history of the mill. From every corner, people were coming to see the coach passing by.

Jane wondered if she should wave to them, but felt too shy. She was listening, very interested in spite of herself. William was talking with such genuine excitement. Clearly, he loved this place, and did not even try to maintain that air of aristocratic indifference that often irritated her. She liked to see him like this—happy—enthusiastic, even. _Perhaps Lucy is right, and this place has a good influence on everyone. _

A great green mound rose up before them, and her husband launched on further tales of Old Wargrave Hill, and the fighting it had seen. Moll and Pullen were listening to the stories, too, very interested. The weather was not right for it now, but Tavington promised to show them all the Barrows when they had a fine day.

"We really could walk out there—or take the carriage part of the way and walk the rest. I have been thinking though, my dear, that when we are able—perhaps next year—we should get you a horse of your own."

Jane did not want even to think about such an expense at the moment. "I'm sure it would be nice—when we are able."

She could not imagine ever riding confidently enough to participate in a hunt, but riding would be good and needed exercise. _Even if I had just a pony of my own—_The words of the "Dapple-Grey" rhyme sounded in her head, and the thought of her husband as a little boy on his rocking horse brought a smile to her lips.

Seeing that Jane's mood was improving, Tavington felt more cheerful himself. Yes, it was so good to be going to Wargrave! "Up ahead," he continued. "You can see the church spire. It is accounted very fine. The present church was built in 1245, over the foundations of two previous houses of worship. It is perhaps a little large for the parish, but the population here was greater in former days. Across the churchyard, and behind those trees, is the vicarage. I have not had an opportunity to examine it in detail, but I have the keys, and perhaps we should have a look at least."

"I should like that," Jane agreed, "though it would seem that the Hall will need most of our attention."

Tavington only smiled, watching for the moment when Wargrave Hall would be revealed. There, just around the bend, beyond the Low Pasture. "Look!" They looked, and he glanced back, eager to see Jane's expression. Her face brightened, as if a shadow lifted from her.

Then she smiled. "How splendid!" Yes, she liked it very much. It was not as big as Colneford Castle, and was built in an entirely different style. Colneford looked like the fortress it was. This was a home: huge and imposing to be sure, but still within human dimensions.

Mellow brown stone rose up, with plenty of windows for light. It was H-shaped and three stories tall, with garrets at the top. There was a little low wall enclosing it, protecting the lawn. Angling from the back she could see a small structure with a pointed dome.

"What is that?" she asked, pointing.

"That is one of two Pudding Houses. The family used to go to them after the rest of dinner was done, and enjoy their desserts there. In our time, one was used as a summer tea house, and the other—largely was our playhouse, when we were children. The gardener kept some of his tools there, too. Do you like the house?"

"Very much! Can we drive all the way around it?"

"If you like. Here! Scoggins! Take the sweep around the house and then come back to the front door—yes, that one."

He sat back, exchanging smiles with Jane. The servants, too, seemed to like the place. In a little over a week, the house had lost it derelict look. Weeds had been cleared from the front, and smoke puffed up from the kitchen chimney. There was scaffolding on the north side of the house, and a confusion of wagons and equipment to serve the men working on the roof. Aside from that, Wargrave was starting to look as it ought.

The back of the house was particularly beautiful, and Tavington was happy to see it again.

"This was originally the front, but my grandfather moved the entrance to the other side by adding a new façade and the Long Gallery as you enter. I've always liked the back of the house, because it's what the original builder meant a visitor to see first."

Moll spoke up. "What are those statues up there? Family portraits?"

"If only they were!" Tavington laughed. "No. Those are the Nine Worthies. I'll never forget John pointing them out to me when I was—well, I must have been _very_ little. Grandfather, it seems, had pointed them out to _him,_ when the old man was still able to get about, and used them to illustrate what a man ought to be."

Jane was embarrassed to reveal her ignorance, and was relieved when Moll fearlessly asked, "Nine Worthies? Who are they?"

"Oh!" Tavington was pleased to talk about the subject, and replied, "In olden days, they were the renowned heroes of history. Three each for the Pagans, the Hebrews of the Old Testament, and the Christians. They were all mighty warriors, but also upholders of honor and chivalry." He called to Scoggins. "Stop for a moment." The coach slowed and rumbled to a stop, and in the quiet, Tavington pointed to the stone figures one by one, his eyes shining with a curious innocence that Jane found very touching. "First," he said, "You see Hector of Troy, Alexander the Great, and Julius Caesar."

Jane followed his moving finger eagerly. "That side?"

"Yes. In the middle are Joshua, King David, and Judas Maccabaeus. And further on are King Arthur, Charlemagne, and Godfrey of Bouillon."

"Who's he?" asked Moll, completely entranced. "Heard of Joshua and David, but never of the Godfrey fellow."

"He was a very great knight who fought in the First Crusade and refused the crown of Jerusalem, saying, "_I will not wear a crown of gold where my savior wore a crown of thorns_." He felt uncomfortably humbled, keenly aware for a moment of his own shortcomings. To hide it he gave a faint dismissive chuckle, trying to recover his usual hauteur. "There are wonderful stories about all of them, and they were my favorite lessons in boyhood." He called to the coachman. "Drive on!"

The staff, such as it was, gathered at the front door to greet them. Tavington saw the Carters, the Jeffreys, two strong-looking young men, and some local girls who had been taken on as maids and kitchen help. The Jeffreys were especially to be relied on, though they were getting on in years. Maggie was a fine plain cook, and Jeffreys himself was restored to his position as head groom, however much the stables were diminished.

There were some others in the little group, too: the foreman of the roofers, his assistant, the head carpenter, and Mr. Cox, the builder from Colchester who was in charge of the repair operations. They had all found accommodations in the vacant servant quarters, where they might remain for some time.

The Carters were living in the empty butler's room on the ground floor, and while Carter could hardly be described as a butler—caretaker was the most fitting term—Tavington was not going to have them turned out after their faithful service. They had a cottage on the grounds, but it was in such a tumbledown state that the old couple had taken refuge in the Hall proper. When funds ran to it, the cottage must be thoroughly repaired—and improved, if Tavington had anything to say about it. Mrs. Carter was nominally the housekeeper, and Jane would find her easy to work with.

The builder and his crew were eating at an extra trestle table set up for them in the servant's hall. John was considering having the work crew build a cottage on the grounds for their own use, but for now, it was easier and cheaper to give them houseroom at Wargrave itself.

The coach stopped. Tom jumped down from the back, opened the door, and stood aside as Tavington helped Jane alight. Tom helped the two maidservants down, taking great care with Moll, who had the baby in her arms. Once she was safe, he brought up the rear of their procession, along with Doggery, who had climbed down from the roof of the coach.

"No butler, and those lads are no better than country louts. I'll have my work cut out for me, won't I?" Tom muttered to the valet. "Give us a hand with the luggage--there's a good fellow."

Tavington gave Jane his arm, presented the servants and workmen to her, and then led her proudly through the door to show her her new home.

Jane could not help herself. She found it lovely. It was Old England in every room. The walls were all dark oak wainscoting, and the furniture old as well. It was too old simply to be out of date. Rather, it seemed all precious and antique and quaintly made. The Great Hall was sparsely furnished: not much more than a long table in the center of the room, some silver candlesticks of great antiquity, and a pair of matched bronze goddesses—Ceres and Diana—ornamenting the mantel of the huge hearth. Above each door was a relief in marble, showing harvest and hunting scenes. Jane stopped in delight, finding it quite wonderful. Tavington, seeing his wife was favorably impressed, felt delight himself.

"You must want to find your room and rest," he said, "but I'm sure you would like to the see the rest of the house as soon as possible."

"Oh, yes, indeed!" Jane cried, glancing out of the mullioned windows, and liking the view. "I long to take off this heavy hat, but then I would like to see it all. We must get the baby settled, though, right away. Where is the nursery?"

Old Mrs. Carter, came forward then. "Bless you, Madam, what a fine little boy! The old nursery is in sad shape, I fear. We have put a few of the rooms on the floor above in order, but nothing is fit on the second."

"That is quite all right, Mrs. Carter. We shall use one of the rooms you have already prepared as our nursery, at least for now. It will be more convenient for me to have the baby nearby, anyway." Jane felt she would not miss the endless stairs at Mortimer Square one particle.

"Then follow me, if you please, Madam. I'll show you the rooms and you can choose at your pleasure. There is the Great Chamber, to be sure—"

Tavington interrupted. "That is the Master's room, and as such ought to be reserved for Sir John, I think."

"I quite agree." Jane did not want to be selfish, especially since her brother-in-law was being so generous as to let her live in his house. "I am sure that they are all perfectly comfortable."

"Just as you please, Madam. If you will follow me." And they followed her slow footsteps. Jane was nearly mad with impatience to see the upstairs, but she walked slowly after the kind old woman, already thinking about how she would find ways to keep Mrs. Carter busy on the ground floor, and save the woman's feeble legs.

They were eventually in the long hall on the first floor, and Jane was shown the Great Chamber anyway (for Mrs. Carter was very proud of it), and said many sincere things about its grandeur. Facing the Great Chamber was another huge bedroom that Jane admired, but which still needed work, and then they paraded to the central portion of the house. She wanted to see all the available rooms before she made her choice.

"Perhaps you'll prefer this room, Madam," Mrs. Carter suggested, leading Jane to the other end of the hall.

Opening a door she showed her a large and charming room with a deep bay window facing the rear lawn. There was a pleasant, sunny seat built into the window, with cushions scattered about. The furniture was dark oak like that in the rest of the house, carved with a multitude of old-fashioned patterns, and with a running barley-twist motif throughout. The bed was huge. The four posts sprouted massively from the floor like living trees, and the coverlet was superbly embroidered with a field of flowers . Nearby was a wonderful, if slightly frayed tapestry. There was a large clothes press that stood on four legs, also carved with a barley twist, and a writing table with a sturdy chair. By the hearth were two armchairs, the seats upholstered with dark red velvet. A door led off to the side.

"Where does that go?" Jane asked.

Mrs. Carter opened the door and showed her a little windowed room with a small and plain bedstead, a large wardrobe, a small dressing table with a small stool, a round table with three chairs, and a clutter of crates. "This room has been many things in its day, ma'am. A dressing room, a nursery, a box room, and a maid's room. It's handy to the bedchamber, as you see."

"I do see," Jane said eagerly. She made her choice instantly. "It would be just the place for Pullen! Pullen, come here!" she called. "We shall clean this room out for you. It will serve as your bedchamber, and my dressing room. The table will make it fit for your sewing room as well."

Pullen wrung her hands, feeling very excited herself. It was a fine room, and it was to be all her own. She would be near her mistress and grandly apart from the rest of the servants. She nodded, and being a well-trained servant, did not gush with the gratitude swelling inside her. Instead, she simply said, "Very good, ma'am, " and saved her rejoicing for later.

Next to Jane's room on the other side, closer to the Great Chamber, was another handsome bedchamber, furnished in much the same grand style as Jane's, though it was slightly smaller. It, like Jane's room and the Great Chamber, showed signs of recent cleaning. Jane made up her mind at once.

"I would like Mrs. Royston and the baby to be here for the time being, since you say the regular nursery is still being refurbished. Have the cradle brought up here, if you please."

Moll raised her brows nearly to her hairline. _She_ would stay in this palatial room? No matter that it was just a stopgap. It was a fine, fine place, with a bed big enough for her to stretch out on. _Big enough for two, even,_ she thought with a secret chuckle. _Might want to try it out, if Tom behaves himself. _

Within a few minutes, tea was ordered for the drawing room, Jane had removed her hat, and wash water was being fetched. Tom and Doggery were upstairs and down, fetching and carrying. Jane was not sure what to do with her spinet, and had it taken to her bedchamber for the time being. She washed, and then, while her husband washed, Little Will demanded his own tea.

While Moll pottered about, putting her things away, Jane sat in the deep windowed alcove that was directly over the rear entryway. Seen close to, she could tell that the windows had been washed in haste, for they were streaked in places. She considered Moll's room carefully while she fed the baby, looking for other sorts of slovenliness. The room had been very dirty indeed before they started on it. Jane could still spot cobwebs here and there in the corners of the high ceiling. She suspected that there was dust under the bed. Moll found, however, that the bed itself had been scrubbed, and that the bedclothes were clean.

"Leastways, I won't have to worry about bugs. I feel like I can't wait to sleep in such a fine bed!"

"Now that we're here, the rooms will be done up with more care. The Colonel will show me over the house shortly. At dinner, bring Will and his cradle to me. I'll watch him this evening so that you can go to the servants' hall and become acquainted."

"That's right kind of you, Mrs. Tavington. I can't deny I'd like to get to know the place, too."

Tavington knocked, and came in to find his son finishing his meal, and his wife quite ready to take her tour of the house. She told him her plan to have the baby join them at dinner, and Tavington was happy to indulge her. He might as well spend as much time with the boy as possible, for he might not see him again for weeks.

Little Will was tucked in for a nap, and Moll and Pullen continued with putting the three occupied rooms in order, with the help of Tom and Doggery. The menservants had not yet been told where they were to sleep, but Mrs. Carter had briefly mentioned that there was plenty of empty space in the servants' quarters. What condition those quarters were in, however, was anybody's guess. Jane peeked into the bedchamber that Mrs. Carter had not shown her, which lay next to the Great Chamber. It answered all her speculations about the original wretched state of the rooms. Its walls, however, were covered with lovely horticultural prints in wonderful colors. It would need to be seen to, eventually, but Jane wanted to get an idea of the house as a whole before she decided where to begin.

Tavington then took her into the Great Chamber for a closer look, and to show her the warped paneling that he had noticed. Possibly whole sections might need to be replaced, but the room was well enough for now. He paused now and then, to show her some family portraits that hung on the walls.

"Up first, or down?" he asked as they reached the wide staircase.

"Up, I suppose. Eventually, I would like to inspect the servants' wing too."

"Eventually," he agreed, "but not now. Besides, Mrs. Carter says that part of the house is in fairly good condition. The leakage in over on this side."

"Up, then."

They dawdled down the hall, looking at a few more paintings, some very darkened with age. Tavington showed her his old schoolroom, with the governess' little chamber behind it. The wall of the schoolroom were still paneled, but the governess' room had been badly damaged by water. It was in the process of repair, and the window frames were being entirely replaced.

"Some of the worst damage on this floor was here," he remarked.

Across from the schoolroom, and above the Great Chamber were two small bedchambers, both of which were in very poor condition. These would need the same degree of repair as the governess' room.

Eventually they came a large and shabby room with crumbling plaster, scarred wainscoting, and a window seat, which Tavington told her had been the nursery. Sheets draped odd shapes, which were revealed to be plain oak furniture and a few toys. It would take work to make this room as pleasant as the nursery at Mortimer Square. Tavington showed her one the small bedsteads.

"This was my bed," he told her. "You can see that I initialed it in my wanton youth."

Pale against the dark oak was carved "WMT," followed by "1754."

"You wicked boy!" Jane reproved him, only partly in jest. She was thinking, _If I ever catch William Francis playing such a trick, I shall warm his behind! _

All the rooms would need cleaning and work, of one sort or another. Jane made mental notes of the most pressing concerns, and then stood for awhile, looking out the windows at the fine view.

William tugged at her arm, and asked, "Do you want to see the garrets? The workmen are up there now, Cox told me."

"Yes. I'd like to see what they are doing."

The stairs were narrow, and Jane climbed them carefully. There was a stink of pitch and of something metallic that Jane did not recognize. Up in the attics and garrets, there was tremendous activity. Lumber was stacked all about. Some windows had been removed, and in the midst of everything, there boiled a pot of pitch, and a great cauldron of what Jane was told was molten lead.

"For the roof, ma'am," it was explained.

The roof was sheathed in the metal, and it was that and the damaged framework underneath that were being rehabilitated. The men seemed to know what they were about, and so Jane left soon, after letting Tavington ask some pertinent questions, and making a few queries herself. The smell was unpleasant, and Jane hoped the work would be over soon. In another three weeks, she was informed.

"And then," Tavington observed, "even after the roof is whole, there will still be work for the carpenters and plasterers and glaziers. An expensive business!"

"Yes," Jane agreed faintly. "I would imagine so."

They went down all the stairs and Jane noticed that the quality of the paintings and tapestries improved as they descended. Along the Long Gallery, there were pictures that even she could tell were remarkable, including a portrait by Holbein of Sir Nicholas Tavington in 1530. Jane paused, studying the picture for a resemblance to her husband, but found none. The subject was certainly a handsome man, but the mustache and beard and velvet doublet concealed any likeness to the modern Tavington beside her. There was a suit of armor, and a collection of swords and pikes mounted on the wall. It was very martial and suited the house somehow.

"Now, you'll like this next room," Tavington said. "It is the library."

He opened the door with a smile that quickly changed to puzzlement, as a white and grey shape darted away from the door with a _mrrrrrow! _Jane jumped, very startled, and then saw that the troublemaker was a small and long-tailed cat that had fled to the far corner of the room, and peered at them with huge and alarmed green eyes.

"Well," managed Tavington, laughing. "At least the mice are unlikely to devour the books. I must ask Mrs. Carter if she knows about the animal."

"I have never had a cat in the house," Jane told him, eyeing the animal uncertainly. "Papa hated cats. It is very pretty, though."

They left the cat in possession of the library, and Tavington took her back through the Great Hall to the dining room. "We'll go to the drawing room last. The dining room was once the buttery, but—"

He paused, and was startled in his turn. The room was already occupied--by a gaunt and dirty man and two tiny, filthy boys. They were black with soot from head to toe and the smaller one was crying noisily, his face streaked white with tears and snot. The man swatted the little fellow, and shoved him over to the dining room fireplace.

"Get your arse up there, ye whinging little bastard, or I'll light a fire under ye."

He saw the lady and gentleman too late, but shoved the boy again, and touched his greasy forelock with an ingratiating cringe that made Jane hate him on sight. "Beg pardon, sor and milady. Just sweeping the chimbleys."

Jane muttered to Tavington, "The _boys_ are sweeping. He appears only to stand about cursing."

"Well, get on with it," Tavington told the sweep impatiently. "Come, my dear. We can see this room later."

"And he had better _not_ light a fire under that child!" Jane replied with indignation. She stalked out of the room.

Tavington gave the sweep a significant look. "You heard the lady. No roasting of small boys."

The sweep nodded, and then scowled horribly at Tavington's retreating back and gave the child another cuff.

Jane was still indignant. "What a horrible man! Imagine threatening his apprentice so!"

"Well, Jane," Tavington pointed out reasonably. "The chimneys must be swept, or we shall burn the house down. The flues at Wargrave are a tangled maze. The fellow will be well-paid if he does a thorough job."

She was still concerned about the children, imagining her own little boy forced to work at such a tender age. Nonetheless, she still felt all the pleasure Tavington intended at the sight of the drawing room. It, too, was still a relic of Elizabethan England, furnished sparsely but comfortably with elaborately carved oak chairs, settees and tables. More tapestries and pictures softened the walls. There was a harpsichord, Jane noted with delight, though it was closed and locked. An ornate cupboard held forgotten musical instruments of bygone days: a consort of recorders, a stringless lute, and an oddly shaped horn that Jane did not recognize. There was some old music inside as well, which Jane vowed to investigate later. No doubt, it would be a quaint and old fashioned as the rest of the house. Her first thought was: _I must show this to Letty!_

Immediately she remembered that Letty was no longer with her, and a terrible feeling of desolation swept over her. William noticed the change in her expression, and she forced a smile. She would certainly show it to Letty one day. Lucy was right—Jane should not complain because her sister now had a life of her own.

When Mrs. Carter and a little maid arrived with tea, Jane asked for the key to the harpsichord.

"Save you, Madam. I'm sure I don't know where it has got to. I shall look for it directly."

"Thank you, Mrs. Carter. And I want you to make certain that those little chimneysweeps have a good meal tonight."

"That I will indeed, though they are the dirtiest little bodies under the sun—"

"—And there is a cat in the library."

"Oh, yes, Madam. Nemesis earns her keep, indeed. I was afeared that the mice would chew the books into nothing, but Mr. Strakes, the schoolmaster that was, he gave us a cat and named it himself, which is why she has so heathen a name. He was partial to cats himself, and I must say we have little trouble with rats and mice in this house—"

"Is it not—untidy—to allow an animal to wander about the house? I mean—"

"Oh, no, Madam! Nemesis is a very clean creature. Mr. Strakes had discovered that a cat could learn to use a little box with sand like a privy. I change the sand now and then and give Puss a bowl of milk—when we have it—and water other times, and she is no trouble at all. I've grown quite fond of her, I must say."

"Well, then—" Jane looked in confusion at her husband, who grinned at her in amusement. "I suppose it does no harm. I should certainly hate to have the house overrun with mice!"

Tea was very simple, with only bread and butter and a bit of plum cake.

"Ah! Maggie Jeffreys' plum cake!" Tavington said, enjoying his very much. "A souvenir of my happy childhood."

"It's very good," Jane agreed. She admired the room some more. "I like it all very much. I am surprised that it has remained so, however. So many people must have everything in the latest style."

"My mother always wanted to renovate here. She was all for tearing out the paneling, and plastering and painting and getting rid of the old furniture. But my father would not hear of it. He wanted to pass on Wargrave exactly as he had found it. Though, of course, in some ways he did not."

Jane found it all very odd, but pleasant. William had not spent so much time alone with her since they were in the little cabin in the backcountry. She had come to look on those times, hard as they were, as some of the happiest of her life. Her husband would only be here another day, but she would enjoy it to the full while he was here. And then she would have plenty of interesting work to do. Jane had feared that she might have nothing to say to William, but the condition of the house provided plenty of matter for conversation. They settled down to a serious discussion of the estate and its needs, the sort of practical duties that Jane liked talking about, and felt she could perform well.

While the house was starting to function again, many of the outbuildings and offices were still not in operation. The dairy was empty of cows, and milk and butter and cheese would have to be purchased. So too the poultry yard. They would have to restock completely, and engage servants to care for the animals. Tavington had found the former head gardener and set him to work with a pair of helpers, but that was only a skeleton staff. Eventually they would need many more, but for the time being, the men could focus on the kitchen garden and getting everything they could salvage from it. The Carters had done their best, but it was too much the old couple, and Joe did not have a gardener's touch. The boy was much happier in the stables, working for Cobb Jeffreys, and was needed there anyway.

Porter had not yet disposed of the year's entire harvest from the Home Farm, and some was being diverted to the house. They would have flour, and apples, and all manner of root vegetables. Some of the harvest Tavington would send to the house in London, to ease Penelope's concerns about their provisions there. A few porkers had been purchased and slaughtered—not enough for the household, really—but the best they could do for the time being. The lack of beeves on the property was a problem, and would involve the expense of buying their meat from the tenant farms or from Chelmsford and carting it out to Wargrave. In fact, Tavington had resolved to spend much of the following day shooting game.

"I'll get an early start. The woods have always been full of pheasant. I'll see if I can bag a few, and you'll have _something_ to eat while I'm gone."

"Pheasant would be very nice." Her lips curved in a teasing smile. "Perhaps Moll should go with you."

Tavington sputtered into his tea. "Perhaps she should!" He sipped and paused thoughtfully. _There's many a true word spoken in jest… _"My dear, that's actually a very good idea, however odd it may sound. Moll is an excellent shot, and two guns are better than one. Do you know if Tom Young can shoot?"

"I really don't know. He knows how to load, though. When we took the highwaymen's pistols, I let him have one. Whether he has ever used a fowling piece, I cannot say."

Tavington set down his cup and slapped his thigh. "It'll do! If you don't mind, Jane, I shall be borrowing Moll for much of tomorrow. I will take Doggery, of course, and we can take Tom, too, We'll train them as loaders, and Tom can learn a bit about shooting game. If Moll and he can go out and shoot now and then, it might be a great addition to the larder!"

"Moll will love that, I'm sure," laughed Jane. "How wonderful that you are liberal-minded enough to permit it. I think Moll has missed the out of doors. She should have a maid under her in the nursery anyway. We'll find some nice girl to help her, and send our huntress-nursemaid out on frequent shooting expeditions!"

"I'll call them to the library this evening, and we'll see to cleaning our arms for the morrow. I'll take them out to Three Farthing Wood, and to the hill…"

And Jane relaxed into the straight-backed old chair, listening to her husband's enthusiastic plans with some amusement. This was a William she had not seen often. He was very fond of outdoor sports—she had witnessed his delight in fox-hunting—and they seemed to her wholesome pastimes. If he wanted to go out shooting, that was a very constructive activity, and she _did_ like pheasant so _very_ much.

After their tea, she insisted that he show her the rest of the ground floor so she could see the kitchen, at least. He felt very agreeable, and they strolled together through the door that led to the South Door, the kitchen and the servant's hall. Jane admired the size of the kitchen, still not quite used to the idea of a kitchen inside a house. In South Carolina, the kitchen had been a separate structure, saving the house the heat and smells of cooking. Of course, in a cooler climate, the extra heat was welcome. Mrs. Jeffreys gave them a brief bob, not to be distracted from preparing dinner.

Mrs. Carter approached her and they talked a little about finding a poultry-maid and a girl to help in the nursery. Jane glanced into the large and welcoming servants' hall, not wanting to disturb some maids who were cleaning in there. She was curious about the cellar, too, and insisted on going down the narrow stairs, wandering past the stored wine and a scantily stocked larder.

"Could we see the vicarage now?" she asked her husband, as she examined some recently preserved apricots. William had told her there was a fine apricot tree against a wall of the kitchen garden.

"It is a quarter of a mile," he told her, "Would the walk be too much for you?"

"Not at all!" she declared in mock indignation. "_I_ can walk. It is you dragoons who must ride a horse everywhere. Do you have the key? Do you mind if I do not put that hat of mine back on?"

He laughed at her impatience, and only said, running a finger along her collarbone, "You would be cold. I'll have a servant fetch my coat and your cloak, and we can have a walk, if you like."

Not too much later, they left the house for the village. Jane realized with some surprise that she had never before taken a long walk with William alone. It was a new experience and one that she decided she would like to repeat often. William was not talking much, but seemed happy, and was watching the woods intently for birds. He paused, in thought.

"There are deer in these woods—or used to be. I wonder if I could get a buck—"

"I shall be very happy with whatever you bring home—be it deer or even pigeon. Anything will be a gain. If all else fails, I know where you can find a cat!"

Laughing, they were quickly at the door of the vicarage, and Tavington drew a massive key from his pocket. The place smelled of disuse and dust, and there was a flutter and a rattle that suggested a bird's nest in the kitchen chimney, but the house was whole, if in desperate need of cleaning and airing. Jane poked about, peering under the dustcloths and behind draperies. There was a strong odor of mice. Perhaps Nemesis—or a sister—might be useful here, too.

It was a roomy and rather rambling house, and the parlor—or drawing room, she supposed they would call it-- was nicely shaped and full of light. Jane could see how a good housekeeper could make it a very pleasant home. She certainly could, had circumstances been different. She wondered if the unknown Mrs. Bordon would like it. _She ought to. A home of her own, to order as she pleases. I do hope she is nice. Perhaps we might become friends… _

She knew little of Mrs. Bordon, other than that she was from New York, and that Captain Bordon had met and married her there. William thought well of her, she knew, and she wondered if she was the sort who might _flirt_ with him. After that brief horror, she calmed down. Captain Bordon was civil and well-bred, but she could not for a moment imagine him being the sort who would tolerate his wife favoring another man with her attentions. That reflection filled her with relief, and Jane decided that when the Hall was in better condition, she would turn her attention to the vicarage.

William showed her the empty church. It badly needed cleaning too. Ordinarily a church had a ruling vestry to see to such things, but in this parish, only Sir John—and by extension his steward—had the authority to appoint the sexton and the verger. Jane added that to the list. If they could find the men who had held those positions formerly, well and good. The church needed sweeping and scrubbing, and the Hall's servants could not do everything.

They came back, and Tavington sent a servant to summon Porter to appear before him. He must present the unworthy fellow to Jane, and make clear that she was to be obeyed. Jane knew enough of the situation to be brisk with Porter, and stand for no nonsense. The man himself came soon, glancing fearfully at Tavington, and bowing low to Mrs. Tavington. She was an unknown quality, and looked gravely upon him, but did not deride or insult him. She listened to his report about the sale of the wheat and barley with as much keenness as her husband. Porter could only hope she was more merciful than the dreadful Colonel. His accounts were examined minutely, and guardedly approved, and he was dismissed, for the time being. Mrs. Tavington told him she would want to see him late on Wednesday morning.

By the time the Tavingtons were done with him, Mrs. Carter had found the key to the harpsichord. The instrument's lock was a little rusty, but with Tavington's assistance, the lock was persuaded to grind open and reveal an instrument in need of tuning, but still very splendid. The inside of the lid was painted with a dreamy landscape. Jane fingered a twanging, dissonant arpeggio, and grimaced.

"I shall put it in order as soon as I can. The tuning key is here, and the strings appear sound. If they snap, I shall have to send for a professional. I haven't spares for an instrument this large." She tried a bit of Scarlatti, which came out in an appalling jangle.

"Good God, Jane! My ears!" Tavington groaned.

She defiantly played a final, ghastly chord. "You won't know it for the same instrument, when next you hear it," she declared. "A simple pleasure, music: but one I cannot do without."

Dinner, too, was simple: a capon with a bread and dried apricot stuffing, some buttered parsnips, a good salad, and a rice pudding to finish. William had sent for a bottle of French wine that had been gathering dust in the cellars. Mr. Porter had not been bold enough to sell off any of the contents of the house, fortunately.

Little Will wriggled in his cradle nearby, clutching a soldier doll, a bit of red felt stuffed with cotton that Moll had made for him. He uttered soft little noises, but let Jane eat her dinner without interruption. A mild night, and an elegant sufficiency at table. The maids had not quite succeeded in cleaning the floor of the soot left by the sweeps, but Jane refused to be bothered by it. William was in a very good humor and seemed in a good humor with her. As they finished dinner, he proposed that they go to the library.

"The guns are there. I'll summon the rest of the servants and we'll make our plans for the morrow."

Tom, who had served dinner, followed along with the cradle, grinning at the wide-eyed baby within. A fire had been lit in the library, and at Jane's direction, Tom carefully set the cradle down near it, while Jane pulled up a comfortable chair. The footman was sent to find Moll and Doggery and was told to come back with them. The baby threw aside his doll, and Jane gave him his ivory teething ring, which he chewed at and drooled over with every sign of contentment.

Tavington began rummaging through the locked cupboard that contained the household firearms and powder. There was nothing very current here. The most recent addition was a good fowling piece John had bought in 1771. Tavington could have kicked himself for not getting himself a first-class rifle when he had bought John's. It might have made all the difference in hunting deer. He would have to make do with a musket.

Jane, rocking the baby, thought her husband was like an excited small boy. She did not notice the cat's stealthy approach until it had jumped into her lap, and lifted its head with an appealing mew.

"My goodness!" She smiled, and extended a tentative finger for the creature to sniff. Introductions thus complete, the cat curled up and demanded to be petted. Jane stroked it cautiously at first, but the animal began to purr loudly, and Jane was quite taken with it. The fur was so very soft, a striped grey and white that looked very neat, and reminded Jane absurdly of Pullen in her grey gown. The cat stretched, and kneaded it paws against the silk of her gown in a playful way. Jane was almost certain by now that Papa, who had been wrong about so many other things, was wrong about cats as well.

The servants arrived, and Moll was not pleased at the sight of Nemesis on Jane's lap.

"You'd best keep an eye an that creature, ma'am. Don't let it near Little Will. A cat can suck the breath right out of a baby's body!"

"Can it really?" Jane asked, concerned. "Thank you for telling me, Moll. Certainly I will not leave the cat alone with the baby. I wouldn't trust a dog with a baby either."

Tavington did not agree at all about dogs. He did not want to argue with Jane in front of the servants, but he well remembered a big sheepdog that had been a companion in the nursery and had watched over him when he rambled about the grounds as a little boy. Dogs were perfectly reliable. He had not seen any dogs about the place. The empty kennels seemed a deplorable deficiency to him. The want of dogs would be a problem tomorrow. Maybe his uncle might lend him one another time. He would talk to Jane about it later.

In the meantime, he disclosed his plans for a shooting party to the servants, and Moll beamed at his wish to include her.

"That's mighty reasonable of you, Colonel. If there are birds to be found hereabouts, I'll get 'em."

"I know you are fond of your musket, Moll, but perhaps a fowling piece might be more practical for pheasant."

"Never you mind about me! I'm used to the old girl, and I can load up with shot, just as easy as ball."

"Have you ever shot game, Tom?"

"No sir," the footman replied, looking rather surprised. "Grew up in London, didn't I? Never spent much time in the country, but I reckon if Moll can do it, I can learn to do it."

Moll nudged him, looking proud, and Tom made up his mind to be a mighty hunter before her. Doggery simply looked resigned.

The weapons were chosen, and a great cleaning ensued. Bags of shot and powder flasks were filled. There was much talk about the right size of shot for different birds. Jane had not grown up in a sporting household, and knew nothing about it. She was happy to sit by the fire with the cat and her baby, and watch the others enjoying themselves. Moll ran up to her room to fetch down her musket, and it too was oiled and polished and prepared.

"Reckon I'll wear my old clothes tomorrow," she decided. "Don't want to tear up my good ones, creeping though the brush."

Jane was reminded that Moll only had two sets of clothing. _I must definitely provide her with something new for winter._

They did not sit up late. Once the preparations were made, Tavington told them they had all best get some sleep, as he wished to get an early start in the morning. Moll and Jane went to the nursery, and the baby was fed and changed and sung to sleep. Moll was left to her grand room and a bed long enough for her--another matter that Jane took to heart—and Jane herself was ready to try out her own huge bed. Tavington might have wanted to turn in early, but that did not mean, she found, that he immediately wanted to sleep. The bed was comfortable and they had a very pleasant time making it theirs.

Afterwards, on the edge of sleep, Jane murmured, "I've had such a wonderful day. I wish all our days could be like this."

"Umm."

She whispered, "You must never hurt me again, William. I couldn't bear it. I can put it by this once, but if you ever again make a fool of yourself over another woman, I'm done with you. Do you understand?"

A soft snore. Jane bit her lip, and sighed, and settled down to sleep herself.

Next day's hunt was a great success. All the participants got very muddy and grubby, but the total bag was impressive. They did indeed bring home a deer, though Tavington reluctantly admitted that he thought the shot that brought it down was Moll's. It was not a very large buck, but they would have venison for some time. They had also managed to shoot a half dozen pheasants, four of which would be smoked. The other two would hang until just right for the table. To round out their exploits, there were a brace of quail and a pair of unlucky rabbits that had not run fast enough to dodge Moll's aim.

"Always been partial to rabbit stew," she declared frankly.

Tavington awarded those prizes to her and told Maggie Jeffreys to prepare the rabbits for the servants' table in any way that Moll chose.

While the shooting party stalked their prey, Jane was busy with her own plans to get the house running as it should. She made a list of the stock they would need to start raising their own poultry. October was not a good time to begin, but they would do what they must: a flock of chickens, a few geese at the very least. There would be little beef or mutton this winter at Wargrave, but they could at least have fowl.

They needed a minimum of three milch cows desperately. Mrs. Carter could name a half dozen girls in the cottages who would fight each other for the chance of being poultrymaid or dairymaid. Finding anyone willing to sell a cow, however, would not prove easy. Jane noted it down on the list of things to discuss with the steward. If nothing else, Porter could spare some of his own, which might well have been filched from the estate anyway.

They needed more soap. Jane told Mrs. Carter that she would buy all there was to be had. Mrs. Carter advised her to send to the other villages—High Wargrave and Larrowhead-- for Wargrave Cross itself was, so to speak, "cleaned out."

The oldest girl from a large family was brought in to be Moll's helper, a rather pretty, nicely spoken girl, named Rose Atwood. The sister next to her in age was old enough to be of use at home, and so the mother could spare Rose to the Great House, especially now that there was a lady there to look after her.

Jane next wanted to see the maid's quarters for herself. All four were in a large room on the second floor. There were another two beds available. The maids had been engaged in great haste, and Jane did not like the condition of the room. She ordered the girls to stop their other tasks and scrub their own quarters immediately. The bedding was old and ragged. Jane sorted through airing cupboards and presses to find better sheets and blankets.

"There's a great store of muslin, Madam." Mrs. Carter said, showing her yet another cupboard. "The girls could make their own sheets."

"And so they will," Jane agreed. "It will be something to do this winter, but I want the maidservants to be settled now. When the house is on a more regular footing, each will have a new quilt. We can make them together in no time at all."

Mrs. Carter could hardly credit the "we," since Lady Cecily had never lifted a finger about the place. Mrs. Tavington seemed more like a hired housekeeper than a fine lady, but the old woman held her peace. Likely the young lady was just anxious to be helpful and friendly, but it wouldn't do for her to be too familiar with the servants. When they knew each other better, she would tell Mrs. Tavington about how things were ordered in Essex. On the other hand, if she knew a good quilt pattern, that was more than Mrs. Carter did. Maybe she could show that maid of hers, and _she_ could teach the others. That would be more fitting.

Dinner was a little late, but Jane had never had a better meal than the collops of roast venison and stuffed quail.

"Perhaps you ought to take some of the game back with you to London," she considered.

"No. You have little enough here, my dear. I shall try to come again soon, perhaps in three weeks. I hope I can bring John and borrow some dogs from my uncle, and then we'll do some serious shooting indeed. I've let everyone know in the meantime that Moll has my permission to shoot game on the estate, and perhaps you can persuade Jeffreys to do a bit of fishing. Perhaps Tom might take that pastime up, too. There used to be trout stocked in the pond by the Low Pasture, and there are pike in the Colne."

A memory stirred, and she smiled. "When you were convalescing in the backcountry, do you remember how you went fishing with Seth and Silas?"

He took her hand and kissed it. "I remember it well. I remember everything of our time there together, and how much you endured for my sake. And now," he continued, somewhat bitterly, "you are called on to endure privation again."

She shook her head. "Hardy privation! Not having two covers at table is no hardship to me. We shall not be gluttons here, true: but no one shall starve, or anything like it. And once the estate is running properly again, all will be well. In a year, you will see plenty and prosperity through the village, and Ceres and Diana will be appeased."

"Ceres and Diana?" He frowned, not quite understanding her.

"Are they not your household gods? I thought they must be, from their images in the Great Hall."

His eyes lit in understanding. "I see what you mean! Ceres and Diana, indeed. Well, we seem to have their good will for grain and game. The rest is up to us!"

-----

She was very sorry to bid him farewell the next morning. The past two days had been so happy—so exactly what she had always hoped their marriage would be. No matter that Wargrave was not really their house: it was a home for her and their child when they most needed it. Nor was she certain how long she would stay. At the moment, she felt she would be happy if she could put down roots into the very earth here. Moll had the right of it: one ought to make the most of what the moment afforded.

She sat down to write her letters: to Caroline and Penelope, Lucy and Mrs. Tazewell. She was here, she was well, the house was delightful, and the weather was fine. To her sisters-in-law she amplified a little, telling them of the current state of the estate and what she planned to do about it. The funds afforded her by Sir John were not limitless. Nonetheless, she felt much could be accomplished, and the house repairs were proceeding apace. She told them about the great hunt, and about her hopes that William and Sir John would come and shoot more game for them, too.

By the time she had finished her bright little missive to Mrs. Tazewell, Porter called, and she received him in the library, stroking the cat as the steward stood nearly trembling before her. It reminded her of her days in South Carolina, when a slave feared a whipping. She told him to sit, and tried to put him at ease. William despised the man, and he had indeed been wicked, but he would serve them better if he were not so terrified. Jane kept her voice calm, and listened carefully to what the man had to say for himself.

"Yes, I quite understand, Mr. Porter," she finally replied. "The wheat will turn a good profit, and you've done well disposing of the rest of the grain. I believe my husband told you that you must continue to keep back the Home Farm's crops. Are the barns in good condition?"

He was so eager to reassure her on that head that he nearly fell out of his chair. Jane thought he was probably telling the truth, as dilapidated barns would lead to a spoiled crop, and thus less profit for him. Still, she made a little note to have them looked at by a third party. She might walk over to the Home Farm herself, but she was not secure enough in her knowledge of the matter to leave it there.

"And we must get the dairy working again. I need three milch cows as soon as possible. Do you know where any are to be had?" In the end, he gave her two of his outright, and promised to negotiate for her for another he knew of. She went down her list of necessities and won her point about the chickens as well. He was so quick to offer her them gratis to her, as well as some geese, that she knew it was guilt that prompted the offers. Nonetheless, as long as she got what she needed, she would not make the man's lot harder. He promised to find her all the soap she wanted, and she was satisfied enough by the end of the conversation to offer him a sop to his dignity.

"I have heard you have children, Mr. Porter. How old are they?" This was a sure touch, for his manner grew warmer and he began talking about them the way a father ought to talk, with pride and tenderness.

"Harry is just six—just six this month—but the finest little fellow you could want to see. Clever as a barrel of monkeys—he can already recite his catechism and he knows his numbers. My dear wife hopes we shall someday make a scholar of him."

"I am glad to hear it. And you have daughters?"

"Oh—yes! The sweetest girls—Deborah is ten, and quite the little woman already. She is such a help and comfort for my wife. Little Betsy is four, and has golden curls like her mother. Our newest little stranger is but eleven months old, and we named her Priscilla after my mother. My mother died last year, you see, quite suddenly, and we—" He stopped, embarrassed to be babbling at the lady. She was not exactly the mistress of Wargrave, but she was near enough to be an object of terror. She smiled kindly, though, and seemed happy to hear about his nearest and dearest.

"What a fine family! And how delightful to have daughters." Jane rang for Tom to show Porter out, and bade the man a kind farewell. "I shall look forward to seeing you on Saturday, if that suits."

"Of course, ma'am. I am at your service."

"Thank you. I know that we shall work well together. Good day to you, sir, and my compliments to Mrs. Porter and your children."

Afterwards, she did not feel like writing any more letters, but went to the nursery to play with William Francis and relax in Moll's company. Moll liked her room very much, and said so frequently. Jane, listening to what was meant, as well as what was said, determined that Moll would have a comfortable bed in the refurbished nursery, even if one had to be made to her measurements.

-----

The days followed: busy days full of problems to be solved and work to be done. The bedchamber next to Moll's was cleaned out, and put in order. Brocade bed curtains were found and mended and hung. A fine old Indian palampore covered the bed. All the pretty horticultural pictures were dusted, and when they had finished with the Print Room, Jane almost wished she had taken it for herself.

They now had a dairymaid and three cows. They had a poultrymaid and chickens and geese, and finally some ducks as well. This resolved some of the victualing issues, but Jane was determined to continue to use restraint in her own dining, especially since she was dining alone. She arranged meals with Mrs. Jeffreys with moderation and economy, not demanding that everything be laid before her first, and then the leavings given to the servants.

Tuning the harpsichord proved a project, for it was too out of tune to be brought up to pitch at one time. She must be patient, and let the strings adjust. Two more tunings over the next week should suffice.

She felt a little alone at the big table, and then in the drawing room or library of an evening. The house was very quiet, and she was glad to have so many faithful servants with her. Now that she was quite alone, she took out the copy of _Fanny Hill,_ and proceeded to read it in the course of a night and a day. She walked about blushing for hours after, desperately longing for William. Good God! Could people really be like that?—and doing _that _all the time! Her own experience suggested that it might be true to life. And the novel was particularly startling in that Fanny was not punished for her many—graphically depicted—sins, but lived happily ever after with the love of her life. And that, too, might be true to life. It was definitely food for thought.

She pushed the enticing visions aside, and gave her attention to domestic duties. Her new servants were willing enough, but many were quite inexperienced. Mrs. Carter did what she could with the maidservants, but only Tom had anything like proper training as a footman. Jane took on two young lads, and gave Tom a brevet promotion to butler and the task of teaching the new menservants. He felt all the glory of his new position, and his celebration with Moll was perhaps a little too enthusiastic.

Jane was awakened just after midnight by a groan from the next room. Immediately she jumped from the bed, worried that Moll had taken ill. Not bothering to knock, she flung open the door and was greeted by a candlelit scene she had never imagined.

Moll and Tom, completely naked, were sprawled on the huge bed, engaged in what Mr. Cleland had described as lovemaking in the Persian style. Jane thought it was like a very grand Rubens, such as she had seen in London—if Rubens had painted _very_ naughty pictures. Moll saw her and then Tom saw her, and he let out a yowl like a scalded cat. Leaping from the bed, he snatched at his breeches, and missed, and then snatched at them again. He managed to get one leg in, but the other was inside out, and he hopped in circles on one foot, frantically trying to cover himself.

Jane, staring in disbelief, noted absently that he had a handsome figure indeed, the dignity of which was somewhat marred by that part of his anatomy that was still somewhat stiff, and bouncing with every hop. Finally the other leg was in, he drew a gasping, victorious, breath as he pulled up his breeches, and then swept Jane a bow. "At your service, Madam."

Jane giggled helplessly. Moll, who had had the sense to just cover herself with the sheets, asked nervously, "Are you all right, ma'am? Something you need?"

"Ah—ah—I thought you were ill. I heard a groan."

Tom's face split in a terrified, zany grin.

Moll cleared her throat, and said, "Why no, ma'am, can't say that I'm ill. I'm feeling mighty fine at the moment. Me and Tom were figuring that we might get married sometime, that's all. I reckon you heard us talking it over."

Tom said nothing, and grinned again.

"Yes," said Jane. "I think your marrying might be a very sensible idea. I suppose you are officially betrothed now?"

"Aye, ma'am, that we are."

"Oh, good," replied Jane, wondering if she was asleep, and dreaming very oddly. She glanced at the baby, whose slumber was angelic and profound. Perhaps she _was_ dreaming. "I wouldn't want you to set a bad example to the other servants. Whenever the new vicar arrives or we go to London, I think you should marry straight away." She was shocked, but hated to reprove Moll, who had borne so much and deserved some happiness. "Please don't do anything that would cause the other servants to talk. And don't make any noises that might wake me or the baby. And please, please-- draw the curtains in future."

She left with what composure she could manage, and shut the door behind her. Instantly, she clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter, thinking of Tom and his—his—_thing_—bouncing around like a sausage. She was back in her own bed in a moment, still giggling. _Am I wrong to permit such a thing? Ought I to dismiss them? _No. She was certainly not going to dismiss faithful servants on whom she depended. They were irreplaceable. She would insist that they marry—which seemed to be their intent anyway—or Moll's at least. If they were betrothed, it mitigated the wrong to a great extent.

Yes, they must marry, and a way would be found to accommodate their married status. She had learned that in England it was not that unusual for a butler to be married. And now they had young Rose, who could sleep in the nursery upstairs when it was finished. Perhaps a room nearby could be fitted up for Mr. and Mrs. Young. She giggled again, thinking that reading _Fanny Hill_ had thoroughly corrupted her.

Saturday was dark and wet, and Jane decided she would stay indoors that day. It was a lazy sort of morning, and her only great accomplishments were eating her breakfast and writing a letter to Mr. Bellini, asking for all the news of concerts and for gossip about the musicians he knew. One feature of her letters to him that she had decided on—if they were to have a real, official correspondence—was to ask him to describe a different city he had seen in each letter. Going to the enormous folio atlas in the library, she shut her eyes and pointed a finger at random. The name surprised her. She knew nothing about the place, but Bellini had mentioned it.

_"My dear sir, as your knowledge of the world far surpasses mine, I ask you for news of it---" _

_"—Tell me about Prague." _

She was no Madame de Sévigné, astonishing generations with the profundity of her own observations, but perhaps she could elicit wonderful letters to herself. After writing the letter, she spent a little time in research, learning what she could herself about that city. How wide the world was! And then she thought of poor little Mr. Pevensie, at sea with no parents, and she wrote him a letter too, telling him about the pleasantest things she had done in the town and in the country.

She saw to the baby, and she and Moll wisely behaved as if Jane had noticed nothing amiss. In a day or two, perhaps, Jane would discuss possible choices for a room for the betrothed couple to share when they were married—a room with a sufficiently large bed for two tall people—but for now she would let it go.

There was much to see to, and one of the workmen had burned himself with the hot pitch, and the new laundrymaid did not quite seem to understand what was required of her. All sorts of challenges rose throughout the day, but there was nothing that threatened to overwhelm. Jane simply wished that Letty were still here to talk to. She sighed, thinking of her sister, wondering where she was, and what she was seeing.

One of the new footmen dashed into the library, and proclaimed with rather improper excitement, "Beg pardon, ma'am—I mean, Madam. There's a carriage a-comin'!"

Clearly, carriages in this country were a great event. Jane humored the boy, and rose to see who might be calling. By the time she had pushed the cat from her lap, and crossed the length of the Great Hall, and opened the door, she could hear the sound of horses' hooves and rumbling wheels. She looked and did not recognize the coach. For a moment she had hoped it was William, and then wondered if it might be the Earl, come to see that she was all right, but there was no coat of arms on the door. It appeared to be a hired carriage, and before she could formulate the hope fully, the door opened, the occupant descended, and Jane rushed to embrace Miss Gilpin.

* * *

**Notes: **Lighting fires, unfortunately, really was often done to force small chimneysweeps to keep working. It was not a mere threat. 

A palampore is an Indian textile, now usually used as a wall hanging, that features a central design--usually a tree (esp. the Tree of Life), and has surrounding rectangular borders. The 18th century Western derivation was often quilted and used as a bed coverlet.

Jane's knowledge of the paintings of Rubens was very limited. She had not, for example, seen _The Rape of the Daughters of Leucippos. _

I have posted more illustrations at the _Tavington's Heiress_ portion of my website.

Thank you to my reviewers. Once again, I would very much appreciate my readers' feedback, even if it is only a brief word or two!

**Next—Chapter 43: Letters from Lady Fanshawe **


	43. Letters from Lady Fanshawe

**Chapter 43: Letters From Lady Fanshawe**

The little writing table was lavishly appointed. Blotter, inkstand, sand, sealing wax, fine writing paper—nothing was wanting. The writing table itself was an exquisite piece, deceptively fragile in appearance. The rest of the room was equally charming. Letty rose from the table in a rustle of silk, and stood looking out of the low French windows into the gardens. The graveled walks, the marble statuary, and a fanciful knot garden of box wood hedge led one's eye toward the distant vista of the pond, some rising ground beyond, and crowning the summit, a little folly in the shape of a domed and columned classical shrine. The view had become familiar over the past few days, but familiarity made it even more beautiful. She longed to see it in its full summer glory.

A quick burst of birdsong distracted her pleasantly. Across the room was a fanciful aviary inhabited by the prettiest yellow canaries. She was told it was the male who sang the sweetest. Letty peered into the cage, admiring the tiny creatures, seeing that they had sufficient water and food. A footman was assigned the duty of caring for her little pets, but Letty liked to make certain they were comfortable herself. Obligingly, the brilliantly colored little lord of the cage hopped closer to her and opened his tiny beak. Out of it flowed arabesques of music. Letty smiled. He was so sweet.

But she must write her letter! It was all too easy to be idle, too easy to simply sit back and let things be done for her. Salton Park was a place of order and efficiency so smooth that one was not often aware of the work involved in operating such a large estate. The housekeeper, the head cook, the butler, the head gardener—all were very good at what they did, and had had years of experience at it. The hordes of junior servants were well-trained and carefully obedient, for neglect of their duties would result in dismissal; and their absence would be unnoticed, as some other young man or woman in need of a situation would replace them without a ripple to disturb the calm.

Letty's household duties were minimal: a menu was presented to her in the morning for her approval or correction; she told the gardener operating the glassed succession houses whether she wanted orchids or gardenias or some other exotic blooms to brighten her palace. For a palace it was. Salton Park was enormous—larger to her eyes than St. James Palace in London or the Queen's Palace near it. Far more beautiful too, in its country setting. She, Letty, was queen of this palace, and any pleasure she desired was hers for the asking.

Rebuking herself for her sloth, she smoothed her gown as she sat to compose her letter. She was nervous about this. She had never written a letter to anyone, and was afraid of appearing stupid. Still, the letter was to her sister, who already knew exactly the extent of Letty's education, and who would not sneer at her or blame her if she made mistakes. She had seen many letters that her sister had received, though, and understood the basic form.

_October 20, 1781 _

_Salton Park _

_My dearest sister, _

_There, _she reassured herself._ That much I know how to do. What next?_

_I hope you and the baby are well. I am very well myself. So is Lord Fanshawe who is so very kind to me. Many things have befallen me and I have seen some marvelous sights. I know that you are worried about me but please do not. Except for missing you I am very happy. I have never written a real letter before. If I make mistakes please tell me so I don't make them when I write to a stranger! _

_After the wedding we stopped at Fanshawe House in St. James Square which is the most elegant place I have ever seen. I was shown to a suite of rooms that must the finest anywhere. I have a bedroom and a boudoir where I can receive people when I get up in the morning. Everything is pale blue and white and gold and it looks like Heaven. I also have a pretty room on the ground floor for writing my letters and practicing music. I did not have much time to look at it but I know I will spend much of my time there. I can't wait to show it to you. We will sit there together and take tea-- just the two of us-- and play on the harp and the spinet. There are some drawing tools there too. Lord Fanshawe said that I may have a drawing master come and teach me if I like when we are back in London. I might as well try it as not. _

_We did not stay there long though. Just the next day we left to go to Somerset. I would like to talk to you about some other things that happened that night but I don't want to write about them. They are nothing bad and I was not hurt or anything like that. I just thought some things were strange. _

_We went through Eton and saw the school. Lord Fanshawe went there when he was a boy. It is very impressive and the boys are so lively. I told Lord Fanshawe that the Colonel went to school there, but he already knew that. The Colonel's father went there too and they knew each other in school and used to play pranks on the other boys and get into trouble. Times have changed since Lord Fanshawe went there. Back in his day they had a festival where they set loose a ram and the boys chased it and beat it with cudgels but they decided it was cruel later and they don't do that anymore. Lord Fanshawe says it was a custom more honored in the breach than in the observance which he said like someone quoting something. Do you know what that is a quote from? It means that it was a bad custom and Lord Fanshawe does not think torturing animals is a good thing to teach boys to do. I think that is very amiable of him. I met his eldest grandson who is twelve years old and goes to school there. He is a very handsome boy. Lord Fanshawe gave him a good present of money. _

_Our carriage is very large and comfortable. Everywhere we go people are so respectful. I was afraid my clothing would not be enough, but Lord Fanshawe had the maids start on some things for me just as soon as he thought we would be getting married. I have a new gown of changeable silk taffeta that is rose when you look at it one way and soft blue the other. It is just lovely. Now they are working on a redingote for me to wear when I am traveling that will be a kind of silvery grey silk trimmed with sky blue. It has wide lapels and a narrow waist and a very full skirt to cover my gown and I think it will look very dashing. And of course I am working on a new hat. It is such fun to trim hats when everything is at hand. I have any kind of feathers I like and ribbons for rosettes and bows. I also have some very nice new linen that he ordered for me and some shifts of silk trimmed with Honiton lace. _

_After Eton we stopped at Winchester and saw the cathedral and then we went to Salisbury and saw the cathedral there too which I thought was prettier than the one in Winchester. We saw Stonehenge which is an ancient temple from the time when the British were heathens. It is made of big grey stones in a ring with no indoors. I thought it looked crude and barbaric but you would be interested in the history so I think you should go and see it. The ancient Britons used to color their skin blue. I thought that was interesting. I wonder if they did that all the time or just when they were on the warpath like the Cherokee._

_I am learning about the Gothic style. It is not like anything I had seen before, but I can see that a lot of buildings in England are influenced by it. In Salisbury Cathedral there is a huge stained glass window of the Brazen Serpent. It is a very strange style, but I think I will find it beautiful after I look at it more and get used to it. _

_Then we went to Glastonbury. Lord Fanshawe told me stories about King Arthur. What a beautiful voice he has. I love to hear stories and he knows all of them. They say that King Arthur is buried in Glastonbury, but Lord Fanshawe is not so sure. He thinks it's a nice legend though. _

_We were both a little tired of traveling for so many days so we went on to Salton Park. I like it so much better than Colneford Castle though that sounds mean of me. It is like a palace but it is perfectly modern. There is a big gate as you approach with a gatekeeper and all. Then you are in the grounds and then you see the view of the house. The entryway has a pediment which is a big triangular thing above the door. There are columns too. It is much much bigger than Cedar Hill. I was tired by the time we arrived and the housekeeper who is a nice woman and whose name is Mrs. Mimsbury showed me my apartments. They are wonderful. I could go on and on and describe all the ornaments but that would sound silly and bragging. Besides I want to tell you more about the rest of the house._

_I have a pretty sitting room of my own here too where I am writing this letter now. Oh dear sister I wish you were here with me. From my window I can see the gardens and they are like Heaven must be. There is a little temple across the pond. It is like a picture but it is real. In my sitting room is a cage full of singing canaries. They are so charming._

_I have to tell you one thing about my apartments. Lord Fanshawe approves of taking baths and being clean more than anyone I've ever known. I have my own watercloset and the dirty water is flushed away and the pot has a comfortable seat and is blue and white china. I even have my own bathtub behind a Coromandel screen. My bathtub is shaped like a shell. Isn't that lovely? Lord Fanshawe says I am like a pearl in it. He says gallant things to me all the time. I like being here very much and if you were here too it would be perfect. Lord Fanshawe has a great deal of respect for you and is not angry that you tried to shoot him so don't worry about that. I know he wouldn't mind if you came to stay for a long time. We could walk in the gardens or we could ride. _

_I told Lord Fanshawe about Lord Colchester's horseback ride and picnic and two days later I was taken out the door and shown the prettiest little white mare in the world! Lord Fanshawe rides very well of course and we rode around the Park. Several of the tenants came out to greet us and they cheered us! It was so flattering. My horse is named Candida and that means white or pure either one. She is so good and gentle. I ride around the Park every day. I shall miss her when we go to Bath. _

_We are not going right away though because Lord Fanshawe's son and his family are coming to visit next week and he says they will be presented to me. You can imagine how nervous I am. I hope they are kind to me but Lord Fanshawe said I must not worry because he is master in his own house. I do believe him but I know how people can give mean looks when somebody's back is turned. I know I have to be brave. I just wish you were here to stand by me. _

_Lord Fanshawe's son is older than the Colonel. He is married and has four sons. We met the eldest at Eton as I said before, but the three youngest are not at school yet. Lord Fanshawe is going to assign some footmen to watch the boys because he says the younger ones are little devils and need to be watched every minute or they will burn the house down. _

_I am practicing my music too especially the Sarabande you like. I am concentrating more on the keyboard than on the harp right now because I am better at it and because I am working on some songs that I can sing and accompany at the same time. It will be nice seeing Mr. Bellini again and having voice lessons when we return to London. _

Letty was feeling quite proud of her letter. She had had more to say than she thought. She went back over it to make certain that it made sense and that the spelling was understandable.

_Meanwhile I am studying the pictures at Salton Park. Lord Fanshawe knows everything about art and is teaching me the meaning of foreshortening and perspective and other painting terms. It is very educational. He has many fine paintings here and in his house in London. Here he has two pictures by a Dutchman called Rembrandt whom Lord Fanshawe considers a very great painter. One painting is all about King Solomon meeting the Queen of Sheba. It is interesting how the picture is different depending on where you stand. The rich clothing just glows. The other picture is a portrait of an old woman. You wouldn't think that would be a good thing to paint but Lord Fanshawe has explained to me why it is a great painting and I think I understand now. He has some portraits by Van Dyke another Dutchman and they are good too. There is a painting of a young woman musician by Titian that I really like. Italian paintings are just different somehow. I also saw some art works at the house on St. James Square and I look forward to looking at them again. There is a Roman statue of a girl dancer. She looks like a real girl made of marble. She has her hands up to her shoulder as if she's about to unpin her clothing. It is wonderful and I can see why Lord Fanshawe likes it so much._

_I hope you aren't bored with hearing about painting and statues. It is so exciting learning about them. Looking at beautiful things like that makes me feel kind of excited and I feel the same way when Lord Fanshawe talks about them or tells me stories. It is sort of a fluttery happy feeling. I like my new clothing and my new jewels and I will show them to you some time but I think art works are even better. I don't know exactly how to describe it. _

_Maybe I should stop now. I want to post this letter to you right away so you know that I am well and thinking about you. Please write back to me. I will write again soon and tell you about the family visit and about Bath. Please give my compliments to the Colonel and to all the others at Mortimer Square--especially Caroline and Penelope! _

_Your loving sister_

_Letty _

The signature was automatic. Letty stared at it, wondering if she was supposed to sign things more formally now. "_Laeticia?—Laeticia de Vere, Viscountess Fanshawe?—Lady Fanshawe?" No, surely. Not to my sister! _She decided to let it go as it was. She would always be "Letty" to Jane.

-----

"My dear Jane, she sounds well and happy enough," Miss Gilpin pointed out. "—and her hand is not badly formed. However, you must teach her better punctuation."

"Yes, I know—"

Jane was not sure why the letter troubled her so much. Was it the mention of the little caged birds, and the fear that Letty was in a cage herself? Was it the catalog of luxuries, and the fear that Letty was becoming a shallow woman of fashion? _Or are you simply jealous of her good fortune? _Jane did not want to admit any jealousy, but in all honesty, she was a little envious of her sister's horse. A pony cart would be so useful. Even a little saddle pony would take her about on her errands more quickly. A pony and a cart, however, were an undesirable expense.

Jane felt they were making progress in putting Wargrave back on a healthy footing, but it was all very precarious, and a selfish indulgence would not be helpful. For bulky items, she had servants with wheelbarrows and handcarts. If she wanted to go into the village, she could walk, now that she had a companion to walk with her.

Miss Gilpin's arrival had been a blessed event. Her sensible old friend looked about and saw much amiss; but she also saw what Jane had achieved. She was accustomed to living on a small income herself, and knew how to make the best of it.

The day she had arrived, she told Jane frankly, "I can stay with you a month—four weeks and two days precisely. I must leave on the twenty-second of November. Fanny and Belinda have a ball on the first of December, and I must be back to help them prepare, and of course to chaperone them that night. It is their very first ball. Belinda is seventeen, and Fanny a year younger, but we decided that it would be cruel to make Fanny wait a year. The girls are so fond of each other, and have always shared so nicely. They will come out together. What a time I shall have of it! But I do not begrudge them. Indeed, once I met them, I could not imagine living without them."

She took Jane by the shoulders, looking on her affectionately. "But I am so happy to see you, my dear Jane! So improved in figure and looks! And with your dear little son! Of course you would not want to remain in London if there were any possibility of infection. I dislike London myself. It is an unhealthy and immoral place. How Providential that you are out in the country—and not so far from Bedfordshire, after all!"

Moll had been presented to Jane's old governess, and the two women took each other's measure quickly. Moll thought the old lady was a good sort, if a little prim. Miss Gilpin thought Moll an excellent nursemaid—so affectionate and sensible—but was rather bewildered by a nursemaid who periodically took a gun out and shot game for the table. It was a necessary evil, but an evil it remained.

Miss Gilpin admired Wargrave Hall. "A dear old home—so very _English." _She was willing to join in all of Jane's plans for improvement, only adding cautions and advice where it seemed essential. They walked together to Wargrave Cross, to the Home Farm, to the vicarage to help oversee the cleaning. The vicars and their wives from the parishes of High Wargrave and Larrowhead had called, and Jane had a much better idea of the situation in those two villages. She would have to return the calls some time soon.

The roof was in vastly better condition than it had been a few weeks before. The rotten timber was torn out and replaced, the holes patched, the lead sheathing renewed and soldered down seamlessly. The roofers had departed, and along with them the stench of pitch and molten lead, but there was still a great deal of work for the other workmen. Much of the garrets had had to be gutted, and the rooms would have to be framed and finished afresh. On the second floor, some of the oak wainscoting was beyond repair. In the governess' room, it was worm-eaten and warped throughout, and had to be removed. To replace the wainscoting was tremendously expensive, and so that room would simply be plastered neatly and painted a soothing blue. The windows also needed replacing. In the schoolroom itself, sections of the wainscoting would be preserved, and the carpenters would practice in this room making new panels that could not be told from the originals.

When they had mastered it, they would replace first the bad section in the Great Chamber, and then move on the more extensive repairs needed in the big bedchamber opposite. This room had once been called the Tapestry Room. The tapestries were all stored away, however, and a few were sadly moth eaten. Jane was not sure they could be repaired. Two of the old hangings were usable, however, and when the room had its new wainscoting, Jane would decorate it appropriately, and it would be the Tapestry Room once more.

The other rooms on the second floor were not as badly damaged as the two over the North Wing. The two small rooms over the Great Chamber, while not as bad as the schoolroom, had had water damage that had leaked down to cause the problems in the Great Chamber below. The damage had been torn out, but doing that had left the rooms in ruins. They would have to wait.

Jane was more interested in the other rooms upstairs, primarily the nursery, which was directly over her own bedchamber. Had the house belonged to her, and had she unlimited funds at her disposal, she would have ordered built a little staircase going directly up to the nursery above. It was impossible, of course. She would keep the temporary nursery next door until William Francis was weaned, and then move him into the room upstairs, which she wanted to be as attractive as the nursery at Mortimer Square.

There was a room next door to the nursery, over Pullen's room and much like it, though a little bigger. She decided she would put Tom and Moll there, when they were married. Miss Gilpin did _not_ agree with this scheme.

"When they marry, my dear Jane, they ought not to live in the Great House. Married servants in England have their own lodgings. You should find them a nice cottage, from whence they can walk back and forth to their duties. Even a servingman should be head of his own household!"

Jane had never considered the pending marriage in such a light. She thought the elderly Carters a good precedent, not immediately realizing that they, too, wanted to move back into their own deserted cottage as soon as it could be repaired, and as soon as they had some wages to help in its upkeep. Jane acknowledged that she did not always know or understand the customs governing masters and free servants in England. Certainly the slaves in Carolina had families—of a sort—but nothing that was formally recognized, or that anyone much regarded when assigning them quarters.

Miss Gilpin had gently told her that Mrs. Carter was concerned about Jane being too generous and friendly with the new servants. Mrs. Carter was becoming very fond of young Mrs. Tavington, and wanted nothing to compromise her dignity and authority at Wargrave Hall. While a lady often favored her own lady's maid, and while Mrs. Royston was an obvious exception to all rules, Jane would need to learn to deal with servants in Essex with a careful combination of kindness and distance. Nonetheless, despite her desire to fit in with the English, Jane disliked the idea of Moll not being in the same house. It made her feel unprotected. And she wanted Moll nearby at night in case Rose needed help, even though young Rose was doing splendidly, and Moll liked her very much.

"A right nice little girl," she approved. "Good with the little ones, and not just for show. Thinks she's done pretty well for herself, helping to look after one little baby, instead of eight brothers and sisters back at home!"

Jane did not even want to bring up the possibility to Moll of her moving out to a cottage. She was afraid of Moll liking the idea and getting enthusiastic about it. She could see perfectly well why Moll might be delighted to have a nice little place of her own. Guiltily, Jane thought of a vacant cottage on the property that would do perfectly well. Ironsides Cottage had a ridiculous name—and no one could explain the origin of it to Jane's satisfaction-- but it was a very good cottage, with three rooms below and two above. It would need some repairs, but without doubt it was far superior to the tiny one-room log cabin Moll had described to Jane, the beloved home that she and Charles Royston had built with their own hands, and which they had seen burned to the ground by their hostile rebel neighbors.

And as Jane pointed out to Miss Gilpin, she really did not have the authority to bestow one of Sir John's cottages on her own personal servants. In fact, who knew how long she would be in the country? She might find herself back in London at a moment's notice, and that would knock all such schemes into a cocked hat anyway. She reflected on her original plan, and decided it suited her current situation the best. She could not hide from the fact that she was being more than a little selfish.

Letty's letter had not arrived quickly. It had been directed to London, to the house on Mortimer Square, and it had taken nearly over a week to arrive there. From there, it had had to wait until Tavington had a few free days to come out to Wargrave. He and John had just arrived, and were preparing a shooting party that would take place on the morrow. Lord Colchester was coming out for the day. The Trumfleets had gone a brief visit to London, and the old man was feeling a bit solitary. He had accepted the invitation with an enthusiastic reply, and Jane rallied the servants to produce superior meals for her husband's uncle.

Because of the more formal nature of the party, Moll, regretfully, could not be included—for it would simply be too odd. However, she would join them briefly for a display of her marksmanship, which could be accounted—more acceptably--as a form of entertainment. The Earl was bringing out a few good hunting dogs and a pair of experienced loaders to carry the guns.

John could not praise Jane enough for the improvements he saw in the house. "By God, Madam! You've done wonders! This is more like! I am greatly obliged to you. Will, you told me she was clever, but this is--really…" He stood admiring the transparently clean windows and the polished wainscoting of the Great Hall, smiling to himself. Tavington, too, was impressed if unsurprised, knowing Jane's capacity for work and household management.

Miss Gilpin was introduced and there was a brief conversation, followed by Jane's offer to show them the state of the repairs. She was very proud to take them through the house, showing the progress that had been made in a few weeks. Her plan for repairing the wainscoting they approved. Step by step, room by room, the house was being restored to what it ought to be. Some expenses could not yet be undertaken. The garrets above the family wing would remain gutted until Sir John could provide a new infusion of money. Many things stored up there had been damaged or ruined, but quite a bit had been salvaged and was piled up, ready to be gone through when time permitted.

It was more important to review their financial situation. Jane showed them the household accounts, and then Porter was summoned and the estate books were examined. Porter was silent and subdued throughout. He had become accustomed to Mrs. Tavington, and trusted that she would not abuse him, but the sight of the two Tavington brothers was terrifying to him, and he was glad to be dismissed.

Tavington had brought his wife a pile of letters from all her correspondents. There was no time to read them all, but as soon as the men went tramping off to look at the grounds, Jane repaired to the drawing room with Miss Gilpin and had read the letter from her sister at once.

"She sounds well and happy," Miss Gilpin repeated. "My dear, what more can you reasonably ask?"

Jane was not sure, but she wanted to have a letter ready to post the very next day. She began it while the men were upstairs before joining the ladies for an early dinner, and Miss Gilpin was engrossed by a volume of Lord Chesterfield's letters. Letty needed to know where Jane was, and what she was doing. Jane decided immediately that the letter would not a whining, "poor me" epistle, but one as cheerful and lively as she could manage. She missed Letty sorely, and would say so, but she did not want Letty to feel badly. She praised her sister's letter for its interesting content, and as an excellent first effort in the art of correspondence. A few rules as to the use of the comma occupied a small paragraph. She would have liked to have said something about letters that were lists of expensive presents that one had received, but she could not think of any way of writing that without seeming churlish. Letty had every reason to be delighted with the wonderful things that had come her way, and Jane hated the idea of spoiling her pleasure.

_--and I hope someday that you—and Lord Fanshawe, also, of course—can come to Wargrave Hall. It is a wonderful house of the Elizabethan period, and I take great pleasure in helping with its restoration. The people in the village and the tenants in the cottages are very good folk and so happy that the family has returned—even such a small portion of it! I am certain that Lord Fanshawe would have valuable insights into some of the pictures here. There is a large portrait by Holbein of a Tavington ancestor that I think must be rather good, but of course his lordship would know more about it. _

_Your letter was honorably conveyed by private coach, for the Colonel and his brother are come to do a bit of shooting. Lord Colchester will be joining us on Thursday. It will be quite a small party, but we must begin somewhere! The Colonel cannot stay long, for he and Sir John have business in Kent in a few days, and then the Colonel has his duties in London. There will be a great review of the troops, including the 3rd Dragoon Guards, when His Majesty returns to Westminster in January._

_Sir John is still eager to get me out to see the Barrows and the ruins up on Old Wargrave Hill, which I confess I have not yet visited. It will be a long and arduous walk, for the carriage can only take us so far, and I will be glad to have men along to give me an arm for support. We shall do that Friday, and then the Master of Wargrave Hall and his brother will flit back to London._

Conversation was guarded at dinner, for the brothers did not wish to discuss financial affairs or their mother's illness in front of Miss Gilpin. Repairs, the tenants, the cleaning of the vicarage chimneys, their uncle's probable early arrival in the morning, their relief that Jane had laid in sufficient victuals for a respectable dinner to set before him, even Jane's work on the old harpsichord--those were safer topics. Jane told them of her need to call on the vicarages at Larrowhead and High Wargrave, and it was agreed that she could slip away in the carriage for an hour or so tomorrow, while the men were at their sport.

Sir John refrained from drinking too deeply, and the men did not dally over their wine before joining the ladies in the drawing room. The aforesaid harpsichord was played for a short concert of duets, and the novelty of it was applauded as much as the performance itself. John, enthroned in one of the straight-backed old-fashioned chairs, seemed very relaxed.

"If this is country life, it is not so bad. A fellow could get accustomed to this. When things are—less complicated—I'll make a point of spending more time here. Ha! Perhaps I'll lay down the law and we'll all come out. I remember how much I disliked coming out here alone. A family party in Uncle Colchester's style. What say you, Will?"

Tavington was rather mellow himself. Jane was being uncommonly pleasant to him, and Miss Gilpin was not regarding him with contempt. It appeared that Jane had not told the wretched story of his amour with Kitty to her confidant. He felt very grateful for his wife's discretion. She really was a splendid girl. She looked rather nice too, though he wished she were able to purchase a new gown. In the new year, surely…

He replied, "It could be quite enjoyable, perhaps, when certain things are more settled. In the next year, perhaps." He did not want to allude to their mother's eventual demise.

He and John had discussed whether a move to Wargrave would benefit Lady Cecily. They could not see how. She had never liked the place, and any move might be stressful to her in her current condition. And while she lived in London, Caro and Pen did not feel able to leave her. They were obedient to their brothers, and their mother was not present in the drawing room on days that they were at home to visitors. On certain other days, however, they did their best to include their mother in family meals. It was not generally very successful.

The gaming episode had marked a palpable decline in their mother—one marked enough that they had noted it immediately. She was not improving. She was, in fact, failing in a way that was painful to watch. Even when she was not able to leave her rooms, her daughters made a point to spend time with her every day. While it no doubt would be set to their account in Heaven, it was not doing them much good on Earth. Caroline was thinner than ever, and anxiety was carving its marks on her brow. Penelope was very nervous and easily startled, and tended to eat extra sweets on the worst days.

Lucy called every other day. It was the one thing that seemed to help the two spinster sisters. She did not visit her mother. That had been tried, and had been a disaster. Instead, she chatted pleasantly with her sisters, and brought Ned for them to pet, and tried to give them an hour or so of peace and happiness.

John spoke again, after a few minutes contemplation of the fire. "I hope you ladies are prepared for our expedition on Saturday. The hill is rather steep in places. If the rain holds off, it should not be too bad, I hope."

"Oh! That does not signify," Miss Gilpin answered sturdily. "Our boots are stout enough. Walking is the best exercise, after all."

Jane smiled and agreed. The next two days and nights promised a rare degree of pleasure.

----

And so it proved. Jane found Lord Colchester not so over-bearing when not on his own ground. She greeted him in the morning when he arrived, and within minutes the men and some happily barking dogs were off to their sports. Somewhat later, Jane called for the carriage, and she and Miss Gilpin had a pleasant little drive about the country. The requisite quarter hours were spent in the homes of the Reverend Mr. Hindley and his wife, and the venerable Reverend Dr. Spottiswoode and his own aged spouse. Jane confirmed her opinion of them as good people, and listened to their concerns for the poor of their parishes, making a few notes. She drove back to Wargrave Hall in plenty of time to see that dinner was progressing nicely.

The men returned, full of themselves, with dirty boots and bright smiles. Lord Colchester was having a wonderful day. The pheasants were plentiful, partridge and quail were thick on the ground, his own aim was true. To cap it off, he was treated to an exhibition of marksmanship by Mrs. Royston, whom the papers had mentioned. Lord Colchester had never imagined that a woman could shoot so splendidly, and was silent in wonder nearly for a full five seconds, before bursting into hearty acclaim.

"With a musket, too! That is capital! Here, my good woman, here! A little something as a keepsake."

Gold poured into Moll's outstretched palm. She blinked at the five guineas shining there.

"Well, thank you kindly, my lord! Me and my old musket have been through a lot together, but I never got paid for it before!"

She gave him a bob of a curtsey, and grinned at Jane, as she stumped back to the house in triumph.

It was not quite time for dinner. Lord Colchester wanted to see what was going on, and he tramped about enthusiastically, admiring where he was meant to admire, praising Jane's efforts even to her own satisfaction. Miss Gilpin tactfully excused herself to write a note. The Tavingtons and their uncle went to drawing room to discuss family affairs.

"Cis and I have had our differences, but it is a heavy thing, this illness of hers. I will call on her directly I'm back in London."

"Uncle," warned Tavington. "Don't be offended if Mamma is very rude and unreasonable when you speak to her. It is all part of her ailment. Her nurse stays with her faithfully, and gives her her medicine regularly, but she is angry and suspicious."

"Oh, I'll humor her, never you fear! She was the prettiest thing when we were young—high spirited, too. Old age is hell. And now this sickness, too. What did the doctor say was wrong with her?"

"A mixture of old age and melancholy has affected her mind," Tavington prevaricated. They had agreed among themselves not to reveal the ugly truth that their mother had the pox.

"Well," grunted their uncle. "I'm glad _I've_ never been melancholy. A fellow is as good as dead when his mind's gone. Now look here. A friend of mine wrote me saying that she had debts all over town. Is that true?"

Sir John blew out a breath. "It's true, Uncle. Your sister had not been keeping up with her affairs for some time. She was owed money too, and we're having a devil of a time collecting on her debts of honor. As to her own debts—well, she had not paid anything in some time. We have just now settled with her dressmaker, and it was fairly acrimonious. We've had to pay off the provisioners of all sorts, or have no food in the house. As to her own gambling debts—"

Tavington took up the story, seeing his brother's weary look. "She had been playing very deeply. If her largest debt had not been forgiven—" he glanced guiltily at Jane—"we should have been in some embarrassment. We have had to use some restraint and economy, and forgo a great many pleasures and purchases."

"If I hadn't starting taking an interest in Wargrave at the same time, it might not have been so bad," John confessed. "I just don't see how I could have put off repairs much longer, however, without the place falling down."

Their uncle was blunt. "Do you need money? I am prepared—"

"No, Uncle!" Sir John forestalled him. "Thank you, but no. I am expecting a large influx of cash from that land agent in Cheshire within the next week or two, and a fair profit from the sale of a few crops. We're all going to get our quarterly payments from our investments at Christmas. We've had to tighten our belts a bit, but by the New Year, we should be largely clear of her debts. It could have been worse. Of course, the house will be a drain for some time—"

"—It will be a drain forever," their uncle cheerfully predicted. "There is nothing like a country house for soaking up money!" He beamed at Jane. "But we love our homes all the same, and you, my dear, have done splendid work here. Poor John was ashamed to have me see the place only a month ago, and now! I've a mind to move in and sponge off the lot of you!"

"You'd be very welcome," John replied earnestly.

Jane thrilled with horror, terrified that Lord Colchester would agree to spend the night. Sir John did not realize that there was not yet a spare room in which to put him. She had only a dreadful moment of mental rearrangements—Miss Gilpin in with her, and William with his brother—before the earl smilingly refused, saying that he must return to Colneford directly after dinner. Jane attempted not to betray excessive relief at the news.

The shooting party markedly replenished the larder at Wargrave. Jane gave orders the next day to divide the bag and prepare a portion to be sent back to London with her husband. Hard as she had been working, she knew that her sisters-in-law had had their own trials.

She rose early the next morning, smiling at her handsome husband as he snored naked in her bed, and busily read her letters. She needed to have the replies ready to send back by him the next day. Pen had almost no time for her charities, and had been afraid to go out, lest she be dunned in public by her mother's creditors. Caroline admitted that she was writing a novel, and told Jane of some plot points that were still troubling her.

Lucy had the most exciting news. Jane shared it with her husband when he came down to breakfast.

"Lucy's letter was very arch and sprightly."

"Umm?" he mumbled around his eggs.

"Another Protheroe is expected in June."

He swallowed, and looked interested. "Indeed? I am happy for them both. And now they have a little extra to settle on their children, with Lucy's inheritance."

"Is there much talk?"

"About what you would expect. The best thing is for us to say nothing."

He returned to his eggs, and Jane was left to her own thoughts until the rest of the party joined them. Miss Gilpin and John arrived to enjoy their own breakfast and chat about the adventure planned for the day. The carriage would take them part of the way and then wait, while they walked out to the Barrows.

The drive out was not long. Jane discovered that here were three barrows in all; with the largest of them lying perpendicular to the other two. They were covered in long grass, and the two women scrambled over them as well their petticoats permitted, full of questions about the history of the battle and wanting to know the names of the leaders of both the Vikings and the Saxons.

"It's too bad Dr. Crumby is gone," John said. "He was making notes for a book about the site. He collected all sorts of local lore and legends. I remember some of it. About the Hill, too."

"Oh!" cried Jane. "I have seen those notes in the study at the vicarage. I did not know what they were until now. I am so glad I did not burn them. Whoever from the gentleman's family came to take possession of his books did not bother with his big notebook and all the papers in it. I put it all aside in a cupboard. Someone ought to have a look at it."

"Perhaps you should write the book yourself, as the local squire," Miss Gilpin suggested to Sir John.

"Oh, Lord! What an idea! It's good of you to think of it, but I'm just not a scholar, I'm afraid. I know, Will!" he said, grinning at his brother. "We'll have that friend of yours take it up when he arrives, and so pay his debt to us for our generosity!"

They soon left for the Hill, and once there, Jane found the climb more taxing that she had anticipated.

"It was worth it to see the summit," she confessed, looking about at the mysterious ruins.

An arch here, a section of wall there, a litter of the past everywhere. A corner of foundation stones protruded to one side, varying very much in style and color.

"Old Crumby said that that layer was Roman," John said, pointing to a layer of smoothly fitted brown blocks. "It would be interesting to dig the whole thing up and see how the places here were laid out, don't you think, Will?"

"We already know about the castle that stood here until 1521. We even have pictures of it. There are some descriptions of the motte and bailey that preceded it. The Roman villa, though, is another matter."

"A worthy undertaking," Miss Gilpin declared. "Who knows what treasures you might uncover?"

John muttered, "Treasure would be just the thing. We could use a bit of treasure, God knows!"

-----

_November 15, 1781 _

_Number 4, Royal Crescent _

_Bath _

_My dearest sister, _

_I have received your letter, and I enjoyed it so much. It was the first letter I have ever received, you know. Thank you for your advice about punctuation. I knew I needed assistance, and so Lord Fanshawe was so kind as to have his secretary review and correct this letter before I made my fair copy. I am assured that he is a man of perfect discretion. _

_It is very helpful, and I trust that my style will markedly improve under Mr. Speedwell's tuition. He selected from the library for me a collection of letters by Lady Mary Wortley-Montagu. She traveled to many foreign places and was a keen observer. Mr. Speedwell suggested that I take her as my model. _

_The visit with my stepson, the Honorable Mr. de Vere, went as well as you would expect. He is a worthy man, no doubt; and his wife is a lady of breeding and education. They did not seem very happy to make my acquaintance, but they said nothing unkind to me. I do not say they said anything kind, however. It was very uncomfortable to sit alone with Mrs. De Vere after dinner. I tried to talk to her, but she was not interested. I gave up and played on the harpsichord, which is a wonderful instrument. _

_Lord Fanshawe's description of his grandchildren proved all too true. _

_This part of the letter I did not let Mr. Speedwell read, so do not worry. I tried to remember the commas all on my own. Those boys are the horridest little devils I have ever seen. They are spoiled and spiteful and are worse than savages, because they ought to know better. I never saw anything like them, black or white, slave or free. Even the rough boys who followed the army were not as bad because they knew they could get a whipping or worse if they made somebody mad enough. _

_The little de Veres came to Salton Park and went wild. It was like Mr. and Mrs. de Vere did not see them misbehaving. The boys did not dare speak rudely to Lord Fanshawe, because they know that he does not tolerate impertinence from anybody. However, when I was walking in the garden they threw chestnuts at my hat and hit me in the head. It hurt badly and made me bleed a little. When Lord Fanshawe found out about it he took the boys away and spoke to them. I do not know what he said, but they did not come near me again until they left and then they just bowed low. The second oldest glared at me, however, in a manner that would have been frightening if I had still been a slave even though he was only eight years old. _

_Lord Fanshawe does not like them much even though they are his grandsons. He is disappointed that they are not civilized boys. He said very sarcastically that they were Charming. He called them Men in the Making, and that they were Sly and Deceitful already. The oldest boy we had seen at Eton earlier. He was much nicer than his brothers. That could be because he is older and wiser. Lord Fanshawe thinks that its because when he went to school no one would put up with the way he was at home and they beat it out of him straight away. Maybe the other boys will profit from school as well. I agree with Lord Fanshawe that a good education is very important. _

_I don't want to write about them anymore. There are too many other wonderful things to write about. We are in Bath now, of course, and are staying in a beautiful town house in the Royal Crescent, which is a street that is shaped like a crescent moon. There is a great deal of lawn in front. Bath is a very pretty town, though much smaller than London. _

_We have visited the baths, which include some real Roman ruins! You need to see them. They are beautiful and interesting. The ancient Romans were civilized people, and they built things much better than the ancient British. The waters here were famous even in the days of the Romans, which shows how clever they were. The waters must be beneficial. They taste terrible, but not as bad as Mama's rhubarb tonic. _

_I still feel sad when I think about Mama, but I know she would be happy for me if she could see how happy and comfortable I am. Whenever I get a new gown or a new piece of jewelry, I think: "This is for Mama, too." _

_We went to the Pump Room for the water and met many very nice people. Everyone is curious about me because they have heard of Lord Fanshawe. I have many cards from people. Some of the ladies are very sweet-natured and pleasant to be around. Others I think just want to flatter me because I have a title. _

_I have been to the Lower Rooms, and we are going to a private musical evening tomorrow and on Saturday to a ball at the Upper Rooms. I have a new gown. It is white satin and silver tissue. _

_Oh! The best thing that happened was going to the theatre! We went and Lord Fanshawe had reserved a box. I saw "She Stoops to Conquer!" It was wonderful. The actors and actresses spoke loudly enough that I could understand every word. The actress who played Kate was very pretty. Tony Lumpkin was so funny that I could hardly stop laughing. I have never had such a good time. I wish I could go to the theatre every night. _

_Lord Fanshawe was glad I enjoyed myself. He says we will go often if it pleases me, but some plays are better than others. He has told me about some plays by Shakespeare, and I like to hear the stories, but I don't think I would enjoy seeing them acted. Some are terribly sad, and some are horribly cruel and violent. Lord Fanshawe says that sometimes the plays are changed to give them a happy ending._

_I can't imagine seeing someone being killed right in front of me on stage. I have seen the real thing, and it makes me sick to imagine someone pretending to kill someone or to die. Lord Fanshawe just smiled, and said that meant that Hamlet was quite out, he supposed. He told me about the play and I shuddered. Everybody dies at the end. I think that is ridiculous, because the actors would have to get up and bow when they are finished. _

_You must not think I live only for pleasure. Lord Fanshawe is still teaching me about art. In Bath there are other educational things to see. _

_We met the most remarkable man last Friday. His name is William Herschel, and all he does is look at the sky though his telescopes. He has many, and they are much bigger that the one the Colonel used to have. They are so big they have stands to rest upon. _

_Mr. Herschel is very famous, it seems, because earlier this year he discovered a new star. He calls it Georgius Sidus after the King. It means George's Star. Lord Fanshawe told me later that he thinks that is a ridiculous name. People in other countries are refusing it call it that. In France they call it "Herschel" after the discoverer. This star is called a planet and it goes around the Sun. _

_Lord Fanshawe says a planet is too important to call after a mere King, however powerful. It should be called after an ancient god like the other planets. The other planets are Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn. Our world is a planet called the Earth. Lord Fanshawe says that philosophers have learned that the Earth and the other planets go around the Sun, too. He is so wise that I must believe him, but it is very, very strange. Did you ever hear about the Earth going around the Sun? I'm sure that is not in the Bible. _

_Mr. Herschel used to make a living as a musician. Lord Fanshawe says he is very talented, but that he loves astronomy more than anything. Astronomy is the study of the heavens. As you see, Mr. Speedwell is helping me with these new words. _

_It is amazing to me that a man can spend all his time studying the sky, but that is what Mr. Herschel does. He is not married. His sister, Miss Herschel, keeps house for him. They are from Germany, and have accents, but I had no trouble understanding either one of them. Miss Herschel is very nice and very clever, but not at all handsome. She also studies astronomy and helps her brother. I wish you could meet her, because you are both so clever that I think you_ _would like each other. _

_I was embarrassed that I was so ignorant of things everyone else knows, but Lord Fanshawe was kind, and the next day gave me a book about astronomy for ladies, which is why I can list and spell the planets. He has some globes, one with the Earth on it, and the other with the constellations. He is helping me understand them, and it is so interesting. _

_When I finish the book about astronomy, I will read about geography. I want to be an educated woman, not just one with fine clothes. I looked through one of the telescopes. I saw the Moon and it was very big and clear. There are mountains and seas on it. I wondered if there are people, but Lord Fanshawe says nobody knows that. He thinks it more likely that there are people on the planets Venus or Mars because they are larger. He says science is making great strides all the time. _

_Mr. Herschel was so patient with me. We saw the planets Jupiter and Saturn. Jupiter has four little moons going around it instead of just one like the Earth. Saturn is my favorite. It is a little ball in the telescope, with rings around it. It is so pretty and perfect. Of course it is really very big, but looks small because it is very far away. I was sorry I could not see Mars, but it was not in the right position. I would like to look through Mr. Herschels's telescopes again. _

_We will be in Bath for some time, but we will return to London at the beginning of the new year. Lord Fanshawe will have me presented to the Queen when she returns to London. She has regular days that are called "Drawing Rooms" and people go there so they can say they were presented at Court. It is necessary to wear the proper gown, but other than that, all I will have to do is make my duty to her nicely and learn to walk backwards without tripping over my train. I do not speak to her unless she speaks to me. _

_I hope I can see the Princesses too. Lord Fanshawe talks as if he is sorry for them. I asked him why, and he told me about their lives and how little freedom they have and how little they see of the world. It was indeed food for thought. Perhaps being a princess might not be perfectly agreeable. _

_I am so glad you like Wargrave Hall. It sounds like an interesting place. Lord Fanshawe says he has heard that it is a very fine example of the Elizabethan style, and he would like to see the portrait by Holbein. Your description of going to the burial barrows and the old hill I read to Lord Fanshawe. He is very interested in antiquities. Now that I have seen the Roman things at Bath, I am too. Wouldn't it be wonderful to find some old Roman things on Sir John's property? Has anyone ever looked? Lord Fanshawe says such things need to be undertaken in a very organized way. _

_However, I hope that you are not working too hard. I hope the Colonel and his family appreciate all that you are doing for them. Please give my darling little nephew a kiss from me. I find that I miss holding a baby. I miss Moll too. I have no one around me like her. My maids are very sweet, but they would never tell me if I were doing wrong or being silly. Please remember me to her. _

_It seems that we might not see each other until the new year. That makes me very sad. You should be presented at Court, too. I wish we could be presented together. Perhaps you could come and stay at Fanshawe House instead of having to be at Mortimer Square. I shall talk to Lord Fanshawe about it. _

Writing letters could be hard work, but Letty was enjoying this one. How much there was to tell her sister! She got up and paced about the room, rather excited to think about her schedule for the next week.

She looked out the window at the carriages passing by. There were always sights to be seen. Perhaps they would go again to the Pump Room today, and look over the new arrivals. She imagined some future date, when her sister would arrive and they would exclaim over everything together. The ladies who visited were often nice, but formal visits made her neck ache. There was no one like her sister, to whom she could confide all her thoughts.

But there was her husband, who always listened to her so kindly. Leaving copying her letter for the moment, Letty swept downstairs to his study.

"Is Lord Fanshawe engaged at the moment?" she asked a liveried footman in the hall.

"No, my lady," answered the young man, who ogled her—respectfully--like all the rest of the menservants. "He is alone."

Letty knocked softly, and was rewarded by a quiet, "Enter."

"My lord," she said shyly, slipping through the door and closing it behind her. "Do I disturb you?"

"Entirely!" he smiled radiantly, and rose to show her to a chair. "Most delightfully. I thought you busy with your correspondence."

"I have been writing a letter to my sister, telling her of all the diversions of Bath. I hope I do not tire her out. It just seemed—" she leaned forward and confessed, "I hope she does not think me boastful and horrid. It is so unfair. Every day is one of enjoyment here with you, and my sister has to go and work as a housekeeper for her husband's family."

"The resurrection of Wargrave Hall progresses apace, then?"

"Oh, yes, and she is so proud of it. I know she is working so hard, and it is not even her house! It makes me feel terrible. When we were living in South Carolina, she had to work all the time too. I might have been a slave, but she worked as hard as I did, and sometimes it was worse for her. I only had to take care of her and her clothes and she was always sweet to me. Mrs. Tavington had to take care of managing the household and then she had to answer to—our father. He was horrid to her, mean and insulting. Nothing she ever did was good enough. Then the Old Mast—I mean, my father--married his new wife. She was a cousin and very beautiful, and she never did anything but sit in the parlor all dressed up, and say cruel things to my sister about how homely she was and how nobody wanted her.

"My poor sister dreamed about getting away, and she thought she would if she got married. She was engaged when she was young to a cousin. He was very gentle and kind, and it looked like everything was going so well for her. My mother and I would have gone with her to her new home, and we thought Mr. Manigault would be a good master. But he went to England to study, and drowned when his ship was wrecked on the way home. Miss Jane—my sister—has never been quite the same. And then came the war, and there were all sorts of strange men in town."

She glanced up at Fanshawe, who was listening to her with keen attention. "Well—" Letty licked her lips, and decided that she would tell her husband everything. He was very clever and understood human nature. He respected Jane, and needed to know more about what she had suffered.

"Well," she started again. "She met the Colonel, and he was so handsome, and she thought if she married an Englishman he'd take her away from her horrible family. I have never told anyone this—you must never breathe a word—"

Fanshawe smiled, and silently laid his hand on his heart as a pledge.

"The fact is," Letty confessed, "I have never liked the Colonel much. It sounds very ungrateful, because he is the reason I am free and in England and here with you. He has always been nice to me. But I can't forget how often he's treated my sister badly. The day they were married—it was a horrible wedding. The chaplain was drunk and sneering, and the Colonel gave my sister a big ugly ring that didn't even fit her. He let her think she would get to leave her father's house, and then as soon as they were married he took her right back there and rode away the very next day. First, of course, he—slept—with her, and he hurt her. I saw the bruises on her the next day, and she was shocked--and it had been terrible." She blushed, and smiled faintly. "It was not at all like it was for me…"

Fanshawe kissed her hand. "I would have found it quite impossible not to treat you as deserve."

Letty blushed more deeply. She had been quite knowledgeable about the theory and mechanics of what men and women did together. No young slavewoman could be ignorant, unless blind and deaf. Keeping her honor intact had been a matter of chance in her case. She had been protected by her sister and by her mother; there had not often been large numbers of young white men about her father's houses to force the issue; and there had been no one in Carolina for whom she had been willing to give up her privileged life in the Great House. If she had yielded and become pregnant, her sister would not have been permitted to keep her in the house as a maid. Letty would have been relegated to the slave cabins, and a quite different sort of life there. In fact, looking back on it, her escape seemed due to the hand of God.

Whatever she had expected on her wedding night, it had not been what had actually occurred. There had been no hasty, brutal couplings for her. The beautiful room, the diaphanous draperies her maids had helped her into, the candles, the incense—it had been something from a dream. Her husband, in the dim light, had not seemed too old, and he knew everything about women's bodies.

To be admired, to be fondled, to be led gently to the bed and then explored like a marvelous landscape—the memory made her shiver with excitement. He had made her cry out in surprise and delight twice before he had made her his. He had done everything with perfect patience, and wanted some things she had never heard tell of. There were the pretty, exotic costumes to wear, and the posings and posturings he persuaded her to perform up on the little dais in front of the velvet backdrop. There were even books he had shown her with pictures in them that made her blush and quickened her breathing. He never hurt her, though he had told her that some people liked that. She had been afraid of whippings too long for the idea to have any appeal.

She had been a little abashed the next day, but also happy and proud. It was her duty to obey her husband and do anything that he liked. It was not very difficult when he made it all so pleasant. She knew some things that her sister didn't, she was sure.

Lord Fanshawe's liking for baths led to other kinds of games—and she found nothing distasteful about it. He never liked to finish that way, though, because he wanted her to have a child. Letty fell in with this desire with enthusiasm, and divulged to him the secret of her great longing for a little girl. He had been thoughtful, for a little while, and then had pulled her close.

And he was so respectful of her. Just as now, kissing her hand, understanding her so well. She continued with her story.

"Well, not many men are a kind as you are. My sister risked her life to save the Colonel—my mother _lost_ her life. He should treat my sister like a queen. Instead, he goes off and lets his mother insult her and then he carries on with other women!"

Fanshawe's brows rose. "Gossip! Do go on: I long to hear the worst."

"Don't laugh, my lord. The Colonel met that Lady Sattersby and they acted like they were _in love._ We went to Colneford Castle, and the Colonel would hardly spare my sister a word. He flirted with that lady in public, and we were told they had—made love—in the woods during a hunt. Later, the man who first said he saw them said he had never said anything of the kind—but I know better. Lady Sattersby may be pretty, but my sister is worth ten of her—with all her airs and her harp and her title, too!"

Very depressed, she lowered her voice. "And now she's been sent off to the country and has to work as a housekeeper again. It's not fair. I was hoping—that when we go back to London, she could come and stay with us, and not have people constantly expecting her to do things for them!"

"Who could resist such an application?" Fanshawe squeezed her hand. "Of course your sister would be welcome. We can extend the invitation, but it will be up to her husband to allow her to accept. You must understand, though, that I am not sanguine about that. It is very unlikely that Colonel Tavington would allow his wife to stay anywhere in London other than in Mortimer Square. The matter is also complicated by his mother's illness. I have received letters myself. Lady Cecily's condition has worsened. She is kept at home with a nurse, of course. It is the best and kindest treatment possible under the circumstances, and of course all very proper. Until all is over, he will probably not make a separate establishment in London."

He pondered the matter, "It is also possible, my lady, that your sister enjoys making herself useful. No—hear me out! She is a very clever woman and no doubt likes to make use of her intelligence. The work at Wargrave Hall gives her occupation and some independence. Not to be completely discounted is her real concern for her infant son. You and your sister are very different women, and naturally have different tastes and sources of enjoyment. No, I do not think your sister should be taken for granted, but neither would I deny her a chance to show her sound qualities. I urge you to support her in her endeavors in the country by showing your interest and admiration in your letters.

"Later, when we return to London, we shall see. If the threat of infection recedes, she may be inclined for some town amusements, and you can at least spend much of the days with her. Ultimately, of course, I should be honored to invite your sister and her husband to Salton Park for a long visit. You must be patient."

Letty trusted that Lord Fanshawe knew best, but it was hard to wait so long. "I would like to send her a present, at least, so she knows that _I_ care about her."

He rose, looking pleased. "What an amiable sentiment! Let us, then, to the shops! We shall find a trifle to amuse your admirable sister, and perhaps something for the child, as well. That always pleases a young mother."

"Oh, yes! That is such a good idea! Let us get something for Mrs. Royston, too. She has been such a faithful friend and servant. We were servants together for a time, you know, and she accepted my becoming a lady so generously. Let us get her something very nice. I can always finish my letter later, and send it along with my gifts. I have never given anyone a present, you know."

He found her newest pleasure both touching and a little melancholy. In a flash of imagination, he saw the many possible lives that the lovely young woman before him could have led. Marrying a man fifty years her senior might not seem ideal, but it was infinitely superior to other fates she might have suffered. He found it hard to dismiss those ugly alternatives; and gave her his arm with particular gentleness as he escorted her from the room.

* * *

**Note: **The planet Uranus was discovered by William Herschel March 13, 1781. Herschel had a long and distinguished career as an astronomer and was later knighted. His sister Caroline discovered eight comets, and a number of nebulae. She was the first woman to receive payment from the British government for scientific work. Herschel eventually married, and his son, Sir John Herschel, was also a famous astronomer. 

Lord Fanshawe's comments on his grandsons are borrowed from Jean Anouilh's play _Becket._

Thank you so much to all my reviewers. If you sign in, I promise to answer. I also want to acknowledge my other reviewers, 999, JanuaryClose, Rachey, and somebody.

I have posted yet more illustrations for the story to my website. Among them is a portrait that is the closest I could get to my concept of Jane's appearance. The picture would have been painted a few years after this story, but it has the "hedgehog" hairstyle, and the coming fashionable muslin "chemise dress" that Jane really likes. There are also pictures of 12 Mortimer Square, the Half Moon Street house promised to Letty, Wargrave Hall, Salton Park, and the various kinds of carriages--among other goodies!

**Next—Chapter 44: In the Mists of the Marshes **


	44. In the Mists of the Marshes

**Chapter 44: In the Mists of the Marshes **

John's good spirits had lasted over a week. Tavington was genuinely glad their few days at Wargrave had so improved his brother's outlook. He was feeling better himself. He had finally finished sitting for his portrait, and Sir Joshua expected it to be complete within a few weeks. It was very entertaining, debating with his brother and sisters where it might hang. Caro was for the entry hall, Pen for the drawing room, John for the library. He had mentioned it to Jane, who surprised him by suggesting the ballroom. The picture was going to be very large, and Tavington thought perhaps Jane had the right of it.

Privately, he played with some ideas of his own. Perhaps when Jane returned to London, they might give a ball—nothing enormous, but something pleasant for her. Good musicians and plenty of them, a beautiful new gown for Jane and a new suit of clothes for himself. The portrait would be a good pretext to invite friends, family, and political allies. If Mamma could be kept quiet enough in her room, it might go very well. Jane was a quite a good dancer, and once given the chance to order a party as she saw fit…

The thought pleased him very much, and made his own mood more cheerful. Even the trivial duties of a garrison officer seemed less pointless. After all, he was well paid for his pains. His officers were well-bred men of good families, even if a few of the younger ones had needed a set-down or two before they understood what he would not tolerate in the mess. It was all so entirely unlike being at war that Tavington dealt with the strangeness by treating his regiment as a kind of riding club. The mess was very club-like indeed; and the sort of man who served in a Guards regiment, even as a private soldier, was rather superior to the ordinary rank-and-file. There would be some ceremonial duties to perform when the King returned to London. Because of that, the men's drill was being polished like a diamond.

Things were well enough in hand that he saw no reason not to go with John into Kent to meet Emily Martingale and her daughter. John was anxious to be with his child for her fourth birthday, and had sought out a particularly beautiful gift for her—one that Tavington gathered was a smuggled French import. Despite being at war with France, no one Tavington knew seemed willing to do without wine or lace, or any of those wonderful things that the French did so much better than the English.

The lady and her parents, a Mr. and Mrs. Clarke, lived in Lydenham, a little village in the North Kentish Marshes, not far from Cliffe. It was an easy day's journey: only a little farther than the one to Wargrave Hall. The weather was holding, and John thought they could take the curricle.

"We'll only stay the night, after all, and then come back the next day. The Black Horse is the only inn thereabouts, and it isn't much, but we can make do. The Clarkes aren't rich, and I don't like to impose. I wrote to Emily that we were coming, and she invited us to dinner, of course. As long as it doesn't get any colder, it should be a pleasant outing."

A small trunk apiece was all the luggage they would need. The only other item to be packed in the curricle was a polished wooden box containing the contraband item-- a remarkably elegant French doll, dressed in the latest from Paris. John brought it home one day, and his sisters exclaimed in delight over its beauty.

"She is a lucky little girl, to have such a kind godfather, John." Penelope approved.

Caroline admired the doll rather wistfully. "How I wish we had a niece!" She gave Tavington an arch smile. "Not that I am complaining about darling William Francis. However, it does any boy good to have a sister!"

"A hint _that_ broad, my dear Caro, penetrates even my thick skull. A niece? That would be pleasant, I agree." Carefully, he did not look at John, not wanting to hurt him.

Penelope picked up the doll for a closer look. "Do you know?" she said. "I think this doll rather resembles Jane."

"What!"

"I see what she means," laughed Caroline. "Do you remember--at the Pantheon, when her hair was powdered? Dressed in pink? Look at the mouth."

John thought it very funny. "By Jove! It does. Too bad we can't keep it and show it to her."

"I don't see any resemblance at all," Tavington said impatiently.

Actually, he could see a faint likeness to his wife in the stiff little doll, but its small size and curious air of vulnerability made him feel uneasy. He sweetened his contradiction with a smile, unwilling to spoil his sisters' amusement. They were just beginning to adjust to the changes in the household. They sat with their mother daily, talking to her with a little sewing to keep their hands busy, or reading to her. Mrs. Watkins kept careful watch that her patient did not become over-excited or difficult.

After tea, Tavington went with Caroline to visit his mother, and found it uncanny. This lady looked like his mother, for the faithful Fabienne kept her as well turned out as ever, but the spirit that had defined Lady Cecily Tavington had waned. The arrogance was not completely gone, however. She sat quietly enough while Tavington chatted about his regiment and related a little innocuous gossip.

After a quarter hour of fairly rational conversation, she abruptly asked Tavington, "Is that Colonial woman still in the house?"

"No, Mamma," he answered patiently. "Mrs. Tavington is at Wargrave with the baby."

"She's not to come back here, Jack!" his mother cried. "I won't have any more of your whores under this roof! Do you understand me?"

Tavington paused, feeling quite sick. "I'm William, Mamma—your son. Do you not know me?"

She peered at him, uncertainly, and then smiled. "Of course I know you, dearest. Don't be silly!" She lay back on the cushions of her daybed, humming an old song of her youth.

Caroline, sitting beside him, sighed. "That is—a new development. Oh, William."

He gave her shoulder a squeeze and left, glad that he and John would be getting out of the house tomorrow. When the day came when their mother was gone, he must think of something wonderful for his sisters—a trip to Wargrave of course, but also perhaps a few weeks by the sea. Penelope could leave her good works that long, surely; and Caroline could take her novel-writing with her wherever they went.

His sister mentioned her book that night at dinner. "I had a letter from Mrs. Tavington today," she announced. "She tells me that she enjoyed the visit of her husband and brother-in-law very much—" she returned John's bow "—and that she had some ideas about my story. I had reached something of an impasse."

"An impasse?" Tavington frowned. He ought to pay more attention to Caroline's aspirations.

"Yes. With Mamma in her present state—well, I could hardly write about her now, could I? I thought I would have to completely give it up, but dear Jane wrote such an amusing, clever letter, and suggested that I change my antagonist from a mother to a stepmother. I find it works very well—in fact, it's given me some new ideas. It's tiresome, of course, to go through the manuscript changing names, but I think it will do very well."

"I look forward to reading the finished product."

"So do I," said John, enjoying his tea. "I know a fellow at White's who knows a publisher. We'll call on him when you're done."

Tavington set his cup down. He wished Jane's letters to him were amusing. He received dutiful short notes, which often read more like the reports of an overworked housekeeper than the affectionate messages of an absent wife. They made him feel rather sad. The visit had helped, but he would have to continue to court Jane's favor if he hoped to win her back entirely—and that meant doing things that would please her, instead of things he pretended would please her because they were convenient for him. And more, he must think before doing things she would not like at all. He hoped she would approve his idea for a ball.

She would certainly approve of the visit to Kent, if she knew all the facts. He thought of the little wax doll. The dainty pink gown, with its ruffles and bows and lace, was sure to win any little girl's heart. Jane was such a good mother and sister. He suspected she would be a very good aunt as well. _She'd probably be terribly earnest about_ _education and accomplishments._ He smiled, picturing Jane fussing over a little girl of their own.

The child's birthday was tomorrow, the fifteenth. The plan was to start early, rest the horses at Dartford, stop at the Black Horse and secure rooms, dine with the Clarkes around four (for the family kept rather old-fashioned hours), give the little girl her gift, and return to the inn. They would leave the next morning, and be back home by mid-afternoon. A short visit, but John could not see how he could linger in the neighborhood without causing embarrassment for the woman he loved.

-----

John was in a good enough mood to allow Tavington to drive part of the way: from Dartford to Lydenham, where the traffic was not so heavy. The weather was perfect: a blue sky, cool but not freezing, the roads dry and fast. The journey was a pleasant one. He told John stories of his adventures with the Green Dragoons, and about the strange people and natural wonders of the Colonies. He had campaigned in New York, in New Jersey, and in Pennsylvania, before the voyage last year—could it really only be last year?—to Georgia and South Carolina. Tavington rattled on and on to the one man he trusted not to be bored: telling of Indians scouts and of flowering tobacco, of panthers and bears and the ubiquitous wild hogs of the South. John might not have traveled beyond Paris, himself, but he liked to hear of faraway places, and was full of questions. Eventually, the story of his courtship and marriage to Jane came out.

"You know, old fellow," John said wryly, "I'm not sure I understand why she puts up with you."

"I know, I know." Tavington felt a little ashamed. When the whole story was laid bare, his behavior was not very—admirable. And since then—

He put those thoughts aside, and changed the topic to the tale of his friend Bordon and his escape from the Hurons in 1777. It was a thrilling yarn, and John laughed and shuddered by turns.

"A damned clever fellow. He must have nerve, and no mistake!"

"That he does. You'll like him, John. You'll find I've done you a favor to provide you with such a man as a neighbor. Mrs. Bordon is a charming woman. She knows her share of stories too, from her childhood in New York--a lot of old Dutch colonial lore from the Hudson Valley."

"Any good ghost stories?"

"You are so Gothick, John. Yes, I believe Mrs. Bordon knows one or two."

They reached Lydenham and the Black Horse a little after two o'clock. The blue sky was turning grey, and the landscape had changed to the flat, treeless expanse of the Kentish Marshes. The road was not much frequented between Cliffe and Lydenham, and the Black Horse made more money as the local public house than as an inn. There were rooms, and they were bestowed gladly on the rich gentlemen from London. The innkeeper and his servants knew Sir John, who had been there before, and bustled about with a great show of energy, but with not much to show for it.

"Don't unload the box from the curricle," John ordered, eager to get moving again. "We'll be taking that with us to Pilchards."

"Don't stray from the road, gentlemen," the innkeeper warned them. "It be treacherous out there. You mind yourselves, now."

In short order they were in motion, traveling the four miles of narrow lane across the Marshes that would take them to the Clarkes' house. Tavington had never seen the area before, and studied the road carefully. They would likely be returning to the inn after dark, and would need their wits about them. _I'll do the driving,_ he promised himself. _John is bound to have drunk too much wine. _

Pilchards was a small and undistinguished looking house, but very pleasant and home-like. Approaching the house, Tavington saw an elderly couple whom he took to be the Clarkes, and next to them a soft-looking young woman who must be John's Emily herself, from the way his brother was preening and grinning.

They were greeted very kindly. John seemed to be a favorite with Mr. and Mrs. Clarke. When Tavington was introduced, he apologized for his intrusion on a family party, but his words were waved away.

"Delighted to see you, my dear sir," cried old Mr. Clarke, shaking his hand. "Delighted to meet Sir John's brother. We live far from the world, and are always happy when company comes."

Tavington noticed that Emily Martingale bit her lip at those words and looked worried. He was eager to know this woman better, and soon had made the acquaintance of the lady's mother and then the lady herself.

To each his own, he decided. Emily was not his ideal of feminine beauty, but his brother thought her lovely, and that was enough. Indeed, even though she was clearly past thirty, she was really a very pretty woman: pretty in a delicate and demure way. She had light brown hair and large blue eyes, he noted, and a slightly cleft chin that set off full lips. She was fragile, rather than voluptuous, and very pale. Tavington wondered if her lungs were sound. Her eyes did not have that keen, observant look in them that Jane's had. However, when she spoke, he was taken with her very sweet voice and gentle manner. When John looked at him expectantly, he was able to smile back, and give a little understanding nod.

He talked about weather and the roads with the Clarkes, since he could see that Mrs. Martingale was desperate to speak to John. His diversionary tactics worked. While the Clarkes chatted, Tavington glanced over his shoulder to see Emily talking in a low, earnest voice to his brother. Tavington became concerned as he saw his brother's face grow red with anger. John took a deep breath, and murmured something back.

As they were led into the house, he gave Tavington his news in a whisper.

"By God, Will, this is dreadful!"

"Bad news?"

"The worst. No—that's wrong—but bad enough. Martingale is coming."

"What?"

"Emily just received a note from him. The scoundrel is in England, and is coming, as he says, 'to see his beloved daughter on her birthday.' He then dropped some hints that he expects some sort of reward, or he might have to take Fanny away with him. The scurvy blackguard!"

"Extortion, then?"

John was trying to hide his hate and rage. "Imagine threatening a woman with losing her child if her family can't pay him off. I'm glad I'm here. When he shows his putrid face, I'll call him out on the spot."

Tavington was uneasy about this, and considered ways in which he could persuade John to let him do any fighting. He did not know Martingale himself, or the extent of his skill at arms. John getting himself killed was not an acceptable outcome.

"At any rate," his brother said, "There's nothing we can do at the moment. Let's have our visit. You still need to meet Fanny!"

The Clarkes' drawing room was quite small. They were seated and told that dinner would soon be served.

"We keep country time, gentlemen," Clarke informed them genially. "No late London hours for us!"

After more talk, the little girl was brought down by her mother, and was as soft and dainty as she. Under her little ruffled cap shone light brown curls. Large, wondering eyes of cornflower blue lit up with joy at the sight of her godfather.

"Good day to you, Sir John," she said, quite nicely, without any prompting, and dropped him a graceful curtsey. She trotted forward and turned up her round little face for a kiss. While John gave her a hearty one, Tavington studied his niece for any family resemblances.

There were some, though they were subtle. She resembled her mother a great deal, but there was something in the brow and in the shape of the eyes that recalled John. She had her mother's very fair skin, and a sweet voice and countenance. Altogether, she was a very appealing child, and Tavington would have been happy to call her niece. That he could not was most unfortunate.

"Will, here is little Miss Martingale! Fanny, my dear, this is my brother, Colonel Tavington."

The little girl curtseyed obediently, shy with a stranger. Tavington smiled and effaced himself, letting John enjoy his time with the child. They were summoned to dinner almost immediately. The Clarkes kept early hours, indeed. The child joined them, in honor of her birthday, but Tavington had the impression that she often ate with them. It was a simple country household, after all, and she was a well-behaved little girl, and it seemed, their only grandchild.

He approved of her nice manners at table. Even more, he approved of the affectionate way she spoke to John, who sat beside her, and helped her cut her meat. He had never pictured his brother as a father, but that had been his own deficiency, not John's. His brother took to this duty as if it were second nature, and the way that the man and the girl bantered and teased showed them the best of old friends. The mother was not actress enough to hide her anxiety, but John covered it with his playful talk with the child, and Tavington did his best to distract the attention of the old couple.

Through the dining room windows, it became manifest that it would be a foggy night. The Clarkes were becoming worried about their guests, and showed surprise that Sir John and his brother the Colonel had not meant to stop the night with them.

"But my dear sirs!" Mr. Clarke protested. "We would be greatly remiss not to offer you hospitality. And the Black Horse—"

"And it is not safe," his wife seconded him. "If you were to stray from the road, your carriage could be trapped in the muck. Men and beasts have been lost out there. Every year, since I can remember, someone has fallen in. You should stay with us, and leave in the clear light of morning!"

Tavington could see their point, and waited for John's response. The sun was setting and the fog rising.

"Well, I suppose—" John said thoughtfully. "Perhaps we could, but first let us give this young lady her present."

A servant was sent out to fetch the box from the curricle, and returned with Tavington's small trunk. The servants at the Black Horse, it seemed, had left the wrong box in the curricle. Confusion ensued. The little girl was too nice to make a scene, but was sad and disappointed. John was possibly even more disappointed than she.

Tavington thought briefly, and then said, "A brief delay only, John. Their grooms can harness the horses again. I shall drive back to Lydenham while you enjoy your visit. It cannot take more than an hour."

But Mr. Clarke, hearing this exchange, did not like Colonel Tavington to have to go out again. Nor did he think it wise to send out tired horses in the growing dark.

"Can I not send a servant instead?"

"I had rather you didn't, sir," Tavington smiled, shaking his head. "There must be no mistake. You are right about the team, of course—but if you had a saddle horse that I might have the use of—"

Everyone praised his good idea, with the exception of Mrs. Clarke, who feared that the Colonel might catch cold in the damp and chilly fog.

"You must take care to stay on the road," she reminded him anxiously. "The marshes are so dangerous even in the daylight!"

"You're sure you don't mind, old fellow?" John asked, looking very hopeful.

"Not a bit. Go and entertain the ladies, you great booby."

John laughed and took his advice.

The horse was a fairly good one: a tall black gelding with some speed to him. Tavington clattered back up the road from Pilchards, the candlelit windows already dimming in the mist. The curious flatness of the landscape made it difficult to distinguish the road. He hoped the fog would not worsen, or he might find returning rather chancy. It was growing very dark, but it was not the first time he had ridden through marshlands. And it was a mere four miles, after all.

Very soon, Tavington saw the faint lights of the village up ahead and heard the noise outside the inn. He trotted up, and found a stableboy to hold his horse while he went upstairs to rummage about. A ridiculous mistake had been made. In John's room, he found the doll's box stacked neatly on top of John's trunk. The box was too large for the saddlebag that the Clarkes groom had provided. Tavington opened the box, and snatched out the little doll, feeling ridiculous as he carried it downstairs. The innkeeper was informed that he and Sir John were staying the night at Pilchards, and would return tomorrow for their other luggage. Scowling ferociously at the stablehands, he put the doll in the saddlebag. Its head peeped out of the bag, and the little wax hands reached over the edge, like a girl reaching up to look over a wall.

Without another word, he spurred the horse away, wanting to get the doll to John as quickly as possible. He was glad he had reconnoitered earlier. The fog was rolling it more thickly. The featureless terrain made it difficult to judge distances. Liquid sounds from the marshes, the call of a nightbird, the rustle of the wind through the marshgrass were the soft accompaniments of his passage. Tavington trotted down the road, knowing that losing his way could be disastrous. He slowed the horse, as the way began more confusing, and then heard distinctly the sounds of hoofbeats behind him.

Who could be traveling this lonely road in the dark? Suddenly, it came to him.

_Who else could it be? _He stopped, listening, as the rider approached. He was only a few yards away when Tavington called out to him.

"Martingale--Peter Martingale?"

The rider reined in his horse violently. The poor beast squealed and stamped, and the man called back, "Who are you?"

"_Are_ you Peter Martingale?"

"What business is it of yours? Who are you? Show yourself!"

Tavington came forward at a walk. He knew, from experience, how menacing the sudden appearance of a tall man on a tall horse could be. And with the addition of the darkness, the swirling mist, the solitary nature of the place, the dark greatcoat Tavington was wearing, and his hat pulled down low, Martingale jumped to the obvious conclusion.

"Good God, fellow, do you mean to rob me? Let me go my way, and I'll say nothing to anyone!"

Tavington sat silent on his horse. He had spoken once in jest to John about killing Martingale, and now the opportunity was before him. He pulled his pistol from his coat and pointed it at the terrified man.

He growled, "I presume you _are_ Martingale, then? You and I have business together."

"Don't shoot! If it's money you want—" the man fumbled into his clothes, and drew out a purse. "Here, take it! Just don't shoot!"

"Stop whimpering, you cringing coward—"

"Look, I haven't much, but down the road there's a gentleman's family—he has money! I can show you the place—the women have jewelry. Just don't shoot me, for God's sake!"

The man was babbling in his fear. Tavington sneered at him, ready to shoot him on the spot. The man flinched and suddenly threw the purse at Tavington, and then slashed at his horse. Tavington was startled by the weighted missile directed at his face. Swearing filthily, he galloped after Martingale, trying to take aim in the darkness. It was useless. Tavington pocketed the weapon, and put his spurs to the horse. His quarry did not seem to know the road. They had only gone a quarter of mile, when Martingale pulled aside suddenly, trying to evade pursuit by heading across country. Tavington hissed, thinking it madness to gallop through the marshes when they were blanketed in mist. He followed more slowly, and Martingale disappeared into the fog.

The sound of the horse and rider, though, was clear enough. There was a sudden stop, a scream abruptly cut off, and a dull splash. _Thrown from his horse, the panicky idiot. _Tavington listened, and heard only the sounds of a frightened horse thrashing in shallow water. The animal suddenly took shape in the pale mist, and galloped past him, heading toward Lydenham.

Tavington dismounted and led his horse carefully toward his prey, testing the ground to make certain it was sound underfoot. Within twenty yards, it became apparent that Martingale would never run away again. A body lay on the ground, shrouded in fog. His head was twisted at an unnatural angle. Martingale's neck was broken, and he was dead.

_Well, that's ironic. _

Tavington stood there some time, deciding what to do. The man was dead, and not by his hand. Perhaps that was for the best. Yes. The more he thought about it, the more relieved he was. This was not an enemy soldier or rebel sympathizer in far away America. This was a fellow Englishman, traveling on his—rather shady—business, but not doing anything illegal or against the interests of the King. Killing him would have been cold-blooded murder, no matter what the mitigating circumstances. Seen in such a light, he felt astonished at himself for imagining that he could murder a man with impunity. _I've been at war too long. _The thought came to him at once, and he mulled it over, realizing that he needed to change his way of thinking about a number of things. But first, there was a dead man to consider.

What to do? He considered pushing the body deeper into the muck, but then thought again. It was very much in Mrs. Martingale's interests that the body be found, and her husband's accidental death be made public.

Tavington then remembered the doll--the entire reason for this hazardous journey in the dark. He slipped under his horse's head and saw that his burden was still secure. The little pale face gazed out at him, eerily like his wife's. Jane would not approve of murder. The tiny hands seemed raised in protest or alarm. He shivered, realizing that he had barely escaped making the worst mistake of his life. Mounting quickly, he cantered back to the security of the Clarke's little island of civilization, and thanked whatever God might be watching for saving his worthless hide.

-----

The doll was rapturously received. The little girl clutched at it, her high, sweet voice shrill with excitement.

"She's so pretty! She's like a Princess! My princess doll!"

Her mother murmured, "Thank Sir John for his gift, darling, and the good Colonel for fetching it for you!"

"Thank you! Thank you!" A kiss for Sir John. "Thank you, Colonel, for riding in the nasty cold fog!" A little curtsey.

John smiled. "Yes, thank you, Will. Hope you didn't catch anything out there in the nasty cold fog!"

There was kind laughter, and a cup of hot tea, and they watched the little girl playing with the grand lady in pink. Mrs. Clarke enjoyed the doll nearly as much as her granddaughter.

"What shall you name her, Fanny dear?"

"I shall call her-- Princess Sally."

_"Sally?" _asked John, looking amused.

Emily explained. "Sally is a girl from the village who sometimes comes to help in the nursery. Fanny is very fond of her."

"Still," grinned John, "I've never heard of a Princess _Sally_."

Fanny was pushing up the gown to study the lace-trimmed petticoats. "Tell me some princess names, Sir John."

"Well—let's see. Our King's daughters are named—er—Charlotte, Elizabeth, Augusta—"

"Augusta! I like that." Fanny held the doll close to her face, and declared, "Her name is Princess Sally Augusta."

Tavington smiled at the child's enthusiasm. "A royal name indeed."

Sitting by his innocent niece, he was glad that he would not have Martingale's death on his conscience. There had always been in him a dark streak of impulsive violence. From time to time, it had served him well in battle; less so when he was called upon to deal with enemy civilians. Tonight, Fate had stepped in and preserved him from the consequences of his nature. _Fate, yes--and fog too thick for an accurate shot!_

-----

When his racing thoughts finally allowed him to sleep, Tavington slept very soundly indeed. The first alarms did not awaken him, nor did the raised voices, full of compassion or vindictive satisfaction. His eyes opened to Emily Martingale's sharp cry, and the sound of men carrying a heavy body into the house.

_They have found him. _

He rose and threw his clothes on quickly. It was past eight in the morning, by his watch. He left his room and was down the stairs in a moment. John was standing in the hall, talking to some men in rough workmen's clothes. It was not necessary to say anything, for John saw him, and gestured him over, bubbling with suppressed excitement.

"Will!" he exclaimed, trying to keep his voice low. "You'll never guess what has happened!"

Tavington made his face a mask of pleasant curiosity.

John clutched his arm, and declared, "That scoundrel Martingale is dead! He was on his way here and was lost in the fog. His horse must have stumbled, and the fellow broke his neck, just like that!"

"And how is the horse?"

"Oh, all right, I believe," John answered seriously. "Not a broken leg, lucky beast! But Will, you're not listening—Martingale is _dead!" _

"That solves Mrs. Martingale's problems, I'd say!"

"Yes!" John's face lit up with boyish happiness. "She and Fanny are safe now. It seems like the hand of God."

"Well, the fog _was_ heavy last night."

"Just think!" John went on in wonder. "The fellow must have been only just behind you. Thank God you did not suffer a like fate!"

"They brought him—here?" asked Tavington, changing the subject.

"Well--yes! The most proper place, I suppose. He _was_ family, after a fashion. The men who found him discovered his name on letters in his pockets. Neck broken as cleanly as you ever saw! He must not have felt much…" John was solemn for a brief moment, in awe before the finality of death. Than his eyes lit up again. "They'll see to the funeral, of course, but we needn't stay. Don't expect he's left her a penny, but no matter. Emily will have to go into mourning, but damn me if she should wear widow's weeds for a year! Even though I can't say much decently at the moment, I've already told her that my feelings are unchanged. I'll put a word in her ear that I'll be talking to her father in about three months—not very long, I know—but why should we stand on ceremony for such a fellow? We can be married in May…" His voice faded.

Suddenly he grabbed his brother in a bear hug. "I'm going to marry Emily!"

"Shh! John!" Tavington warned his brother, patting his back and trying to quiet him before they could scandalize the household. Before such artless joy, he felt a little soiled. More than ever, he was glad he had not killed Martingale, villain though he was.

The farewells were quiet. John's excuse, that they ought not to trespass on a household in mourning, was accepted as very proper. The Clarkes were good and principled people, and were earnestly trying not to show how happy and relieved they were that their daughter's persecutor was now unable to harm her further. Emily was very sad—not exactly sad that she was free of her husband—but sad that he had been such a bad man that no one regretted him. Tavington saw John speak to her quietly alone, before he bent to pick up Fanny and kiss her soundly.

"Goodbye for now, my dear little girl."

She kissed him back, and said, "I'm very sorry you must go." She hugged her new doll, her soft little chin pressed down on the doll's ruffled cap for comfort. "Will you ever, ever come back?"

John kissed her again. "I shall, upon my honor."

"Now you must kiss Princess Sally Augusta."

Without hesitation, John kissed the doll most affectionately. He bowed to the ladies, and shook Mr. Clarke's hand in a particularly hearty and feeling way. Tavington made his own, quieter farewell. Then, too soon, the curricle was rolled out, and the two brothers climbed up and gave the residents of Pilchards their last waves.

"I should be driving," Tavington complained. "You'll overturn us, looking backwards like that."

Pilchards was finally out of view, and John settled down to driving properly, a look of perfect contentment on his face.

"Yes," he said, half to himself. "I shall write to her, and then speak openly to her father in February."

"On St. Valentine's Day," Tavington primly suggested.

"Don't laugh—or laugh if you will—I feel like laughing myself. This is the best thing that ever happened to me. The fellow thought he was going to come here and plague her, and got his just reward! Anyway, I'll speak to Mr. Clarke in February. We shall marry no later than May. I have plans to make!"

"Will you live in London at first, or take her to Wargrave right away?" asked Tavington, beginning to realize how all of this might affect Jane and her bustling housekeeping.

Of course he hoped that John could marry his Emily as planned, though he himself could see all sorts of things that might hinder the business. Their mother might die, and plunge them into mourning themselves—though Tavington could not imagine John waiting longer than a minimal three months, even if that happened. The wedding would be very private, anyway. However, his own concern was Jane, and how she might feel about being displaced by a Lady Tavington.

"Well, Parliament will certainly still be sitting, I suppose, so London first. Emily might not feel comfortable about taking in any of the Season, but there are other things she could enjoy. I should find a house! Some pretty place in Mayfair. I would not mind it if some place were available in Mortimer Square—or perhaps Berkeley Square—I've always liked the look of the place, and Emily and Fanny will enjoy the ices at Gunter's."

"You don't intend to bring her to Number Twelve, then?"

"God, no!" He paused, embarrassed, realizing the criticism implicit in his response. "Sorry, Will, but your own experiment proves that Number Twelve is no place for a wife. Certainly not one so timid as Emily! No. With our mother in such a condition as she is now, it is best not to attempt introductions to new people—especially new daughters-in-law. We shall visit the girls, of course, or we shall have Caro and Pen come to us. Besides, the house will be yours soon enough, and I need my own establishment. You shall see a new John Tavington, old fellow. No more Lord Squanderfield, but a responsible man of family!"

"I look forward to it. But afterwards, you do intend to live at Wargrave, don't you? After so much work to restore it—"

"After so much work—and a great deal done by your good Jane! I hate to make her feel tossed aside. It's a big place, after all, with plenty of room for you—for everybody! We'll have to see how Emily feels about housekeeping such a big place—it's not like she has any experience at it."

"It's your house, John. Your wife ought to be mistress of it. Jane will understand that. And as you say, there is plenty of room for us. We shall come and sponge off you at least three months of every year—"

"Oh, longer, longer if you like! Your old friend will be there, after all. What times we shall have! Hunting, shooting--a ball to introduce Emily to the neighborhood! From now on, I shall make a point of going there at least once a month to make certain Porter is keeping up to the mark, and that the people know me. It's all going quite well, once I have a bit more money. The fellow in Chester should be sending me a letter of credit any day now, and then we'll see. I shall look into taking a house in the spring, and I must start setting aside some money for Fanny."

"Absolutely." Tavington took another look at the man beside him, hardly knowing his brother in this new man so full of hope and plans.

John frowned thoughtfully. "As it stands now, Will, you're still the heir—you and your boy. Emily and I may or may not have more children. She's past thirty now, and it may just not be in the cards. I refuse to worry about it. If a child comes, it comes—and for that matter, it might be another girl!"

"All the more reason to have some money to settle on the young ladies," Tavington teased.

"Yes," John said, a fond smile lighting his features. "The thing is to be happy with what you have, and not worry about the rest. With Emily as my wife… Lady Tavington! How well that sounds!—and with Fanny as my daughter—for I'm the only father she will ever have known—there is nothing more a reasonable man could desire. I shall start looking about. It will be such an amusement, fitting up a proper nest for my family."

He was not looking at the road. A curve and a tree were before them.

Tavington shouted, "John, for God's sake, look where you're going, or let me drive!"

John only laughed, but he did give his attention to the business at hand, as befitting a Member of Parliament and a responsible family man.

* * *

**Next—Chapter 45: "It's Over! It's All Over!" **News of the surrender at Yorktown reaches London. 


	45. It's Over! It's All Over!

**Chapter 45: "It's Over! It's All Over!"**

Rain was coming down in a soft, cold drizzle. Nonetheless, the 3rd Dragoon Guards were drilling in St. James Park. Horses were not otherwise allowed in the park, and generally the passersbys paused to gawk and admire. Today, however, was not a day for strolling in the park, and the few people on foot were hurrying past.

Tavington studied his men, searching for flaws. It was impossible to judge their courage, but by God, their sword drill would be perfect. St. Leger had drawn his attention to some minor slovenliness on the part of a trooper, and the man was nervous, knowing he had his colonel's eye on him.

The dragoons had heard gossip about William Tavington, and he was viewed by them with considerable wariness. On one hand, the papers said he had murdered women and children and enemy wounded in America. On the other, they had also heard that he was an officer who led from the front, and who stood by his own men. That he was an outstanding horseman and swordsman was evident to everyone. He had not shown any signs of being a martinet who ordered floggings for the least infraction. All in all, the dragoons were willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"'Tis all politics anyway, I reckon--the rubbish in the newspapers," one sergeant declared. For the benefit of tender young recruits, he spread a little soldier's gossip. " I heard he was wounded in America. Damned near cut in two with a bayonet. Got a scar all the way from belly to brisket," he recounted with relish. "His horse was killed under him, and he never so much as dropped his sabre. A proper soldier, ain't he?"

Tavington was not quite insensible to the currents of opinion in his own regiment, but he did not allow them to trouble him. The regiment looked good, the men did not show up drunk for duty, the sergeants knew their business, and St. Leger, sitting his horse beside him, was a conscientious young officer. Too young, perhaps. Tavington liked him well enough, and they were cousins, after all; but he doubted that they would ever be close in the way Tavington had felt close to Bordon.

_It's different, I suppose, when we simply go home to good dinners—or feast in the officers' mess—at the end of the day. Guard duty is largely a sham. We don't set pickets, knowing that failure to keep watch could cost us our lives. You never know, though. We might be posted to Ireland, I suppose, and have somewhat more serious responsibilities. _He wondered what Jane would think of Ireland…

A trooper came galloping up with a message. "General Tazewell's compliments, Colonel; and if it please you, he wishes to see you and Colonel St. Leger in his office as soon as possible!"

Tavington raised a brow. St. Leger had no explanation for the sudden summons. "My compliments to the general, trooper. Tell him we shall be there directly." He shrugged. "St. Leger, dismiss the men. I wonder what Tazewell wants."

Before long they were making the short ride to Horse Guards. The two officers dismounted at the wide door, leaving their horses with a groom. There was a stir about the place. Little groups of officers were muttering. It was all very strange, and Tavington strode quickly through the halls. St. Leger, catching some his superior's uneasiness, followed after him. Cries and exclamations echoed down from the floors above. Tazewell's door was open, and the general gestured them in, past the whispering clerks.

"Tavington!" cried Tazewell, alarmed and pale. "Have you heard the news?"

"What news?" Tavington smiled, wondering what the General was so exercised about so early in the morning.

Tazewell's expression was grave and compassionate. "It's very bad. Come in. Come in, both of you, and shut the door."

Tavington was fairly mystified. "What is it, General? Are you quite well?"

"Yes, perfectly well--that is... Well, here, sit down."

Tavington exchanged another puzzled glance with St. Leger, and they took the offered chairs. Tazewell took a breath, and then said heavily, "Cornwallis and all his army are taken. He surrendered to the French and the rebels on October 19th."

St. Leger was struck dumb with shock. Tavington stared at the general, unable to comprehend immediately. "His entire army?" he faltered. It was inconceivable.

"So it seems. He was besieged in some place—Yorktown—a little village on the Chesapeake in Virginia. The army was trapped, and there was no escape."

"All of them?" Tavington repeated stupidly. _All of them? What of Tarleton and his dragoons?_ He could not imagine the wild and careless Tarleton caged within siege lines. Surely he, at least, had escaped, and was riding free, visiting retribution on the enemy. The remnants of his own men were with Cornwallis' army. Were they taken, too?

Tazewell looked at him in compassion. "All. I can see you are shocked. We all are." He lowered his voice. "The news came early this morning. Lord North flung up his arms, crying, 'It's over! It's all over!' It has completely unmanned him."

"The King?"

"The King has been informed. I'm told he is speechless. No doubt he never dreamed of such an outcome. The repercussions—"

"Good God," whispered Tavington. "Where was Sir Henry Clinton? Where was the Navy?"

"In New York. They finally arrived, only to find that Cornwallis had surrendered the day before. They returned immediately to New York with the news."

"Surely—"

"Look, Tavington, I know you rather like Sir Henry, but I have no doubt he will bear a great share of the blame for this. The reports suggest—well, that he was as afraid that Cornwallis would succeed, as that he would fail. No one will want to shift the blame to Lord Cornwallis, who is even now suffering in enemy hands. I daresay Sir Henry will be the scapegoat for all."

"All of them!" Tavington repeated again, in shock. "That means—we will never be able to field such a force afresh—the officers will have given their parole…"

"Yes," Tazewell agreed. "Cornwallis and his army are finished, and with them, I fear, our chance of winning the war. They might as well come home, once they are released from imprisonment."

Tavington shook his head, thinking of all that must follow in the train of this disaster. "You don't understand. So many of our soldiers are Colonials. Where will _they_ go? Their property has already been seized, or will be. My men—they will be homeless and penniless. What will become of them?" He stared through the window, unseeing, across St. James Park. "What a catastrophe!"

St. Leger muttered helplessly, "A black day indeed."

Tazewell leaned back in his chair. "Everyone feels deeply for Cornwallis—even some of the Whigs. The worst of them, of course, are already gloating."

Tavington snarled. "Treacherous bastards!"

"Easy, Tavington," Tazewell reproved. "They have a right to express themselves. We have a right to entirely disagree."

St. Leger laughed harshly. "And the Colonel here has a right to call them treacherous bastards, sir. The Whigs gazettes will make hay of this. What will be said on the floor of the Commons—?"

Tavington blew out a breath. It was too much to take in at once. The government, even with the support of the King, would no doubt collapse at some point. The Whigs would be swept in, triumphant. Tavington wanted to spit at the thought. He must get word to John, to tell him he must be present in the House today. He clung to ordinary matters, like a man clutching a spar in the midst of a shipwreck.

"I cannot bear to talk about this longer right now. I am to dine in the mess today." He rose, unsteadily, "I thank you, Tazewell, for telling me this privately. Come, St.. Leger, we will inform our own officers. Better that they know the worst at once."

He walked back down the hall toward the grey light of the entry, hardly seeing the way in front of him. St. Leger watched him with concern.

"Will you be all right, Tavington?" he whispered anxiously.

"The worst..." Tavington muttered to himself. Catching St. Leger's eye he barked a laugh. "The worst is over, and has been for a month. Yes. I'll be all right, but they won't be—the loyal people in America. I suspect that the worst is not over for them!"

-----

Wargrave Hall was a delightful home indeed, especially with a companion like Miss Gilpin. Jane felt very comfortable, having such an old friend at hand. Miss Gilpin's presence had subtly transferred some of Jane's familiar past to her new environment, making it somehow familiar in its turn. They took long walks, and came to know the house and its gardens intimately. They worked on overseeing the repairs together, and every day saw new projects and plans undertaken.

In the morning, just after she had completed her correspondence, Jane worked with Miss Gilpin and Pullen—and sometimes Moll-- to sew quilts for the maidservants. Once Mrs. Carter's concerns about Jane working beside the young girls from the village were related to her, Jane compromised by sewing the quilts with Miss Gilpin and her two upper servants. Moll joined them from time to time, but Moll was too busy with the baby or with shooting game to regularly sit at a quilting frame.

Instead, they gradually began to include Rose Atwood when Moll could not spare the hours. Rose was a nice girl, and very quiet, and could do plain sewing well enough that she learned the art of quilting quickly.

There was plenty of material in the stores, and they began simply, with the first two quilts being whole cloth, without piecing. Jane had found some bolts of lovely Indian chintz in the attic, which had been ruined along their folds by damp. They could cut the chintz into strips, however, and the next two quilts were strip quilts, alternating the patterns. They were well-made, but made quickly.

Jane wanted to teach Rose the honeycomb pattern for Rose's own new quilt. It would take longer: Miss Gilpin could not stay long enough to see it completed, but Jane felt that Rose would have a sound understanding of the process by the time they finished it. It gave her a great deal of pleasure to feel that she was teaching a young girl a skill that would always be of use to her.

Over their quilting they talked of pleasant, inconsequential things. Jane saved her secrets for more private moments. The hours passed pleasantly, and when she was tired of sewing, there were the accounts to be worked on, the baby to play with, or music or books to entertain her.

With so much to do, she had less time to agonize over past wrongs. She trusted Miss Gilpin, but she did not confide every unfortunate circumstance of her married life to her. She did not mention William's conduct with Lady Sattersby, knowing that it would permanently prejudice the older woman against her husband. Besides, Jane was too proud to admit that her chosen husband would behave so. His conduct had improved markedly since she had come to Wargrave, and perhaps it was for the best to let the past go.

She had previously mentioned Lady Cecily's treatment of her, and now let Miss Gilpin know that it might have been due to her mother-in-law's failing mental faculties. Without revealing all the ugly details, Jane was able to tell enough of the truth that Miss Gilpin was properly sympathetic with Jane, as the target of an unbalanced person. She also, however, spared a great deal of compassion for Lady Cecily, who in her eyes could be forgiven much.

"How I would hate to become senile and be a burden on my family! What a horrible fate," Miss Gilpin said, shuddering. "You say her children are treating her kindly?"

"Oh, yes, indeed. She has her rooms—her bedchamber and boudoir, and her maid. There is a nurse who looks after her and is very civil, and her daughters, at least, sit with her regularly. The doctor says there is nothing to be done for her, except to keep her comfortable. I believe he has prescribed laudanum, for the times when she becomes unduly excited. I still cannot say I wish to have anything to do with her, but I can pity her."

"I am glad to hear it, Jane. We must always forgive those who trespass against us." She changed the subject to something more pleasant. "You heard from Miss Penelope today, I am told. Did she send you the rice?"

"Oh, yes! I sent it down to Mrs. Jeffreys, with instructions as to how I want it cooked. She probably knows all about it, but I am so anxious that everything be just right for William Francis' first essay in solid food."

For Moll had declared that she thought the baby ready to try something beyond his mother's milk. He was sitting up well now, and growing into a strong little boy. Jane remembered all about Little Ash's upbringing, especially Biddy's opinion that rice porridge was the best, safest first food for an infant.

_"Corn mush is hard on a little baby's belly, honey; and even wheat don't always go down well. Rice is best." _

Moll had used corn mush herself with her own baby son. "But that was because that's what I had, ma'am. Didn't have the money to buy rice. Let's try it good old Biddy's way."

An old infant's chair had been brought down from the upstairs nursery, and scrubbed and polished to a mellow shine. Just after noon, at the proper hour for a child's dinner, William Francis was placed in it and his monogrammed silver porringer filled with thin rice gruel, carefully prepared by Maggie Jeffreys, and brought up from the kitchen by Rose. His silver spoon was taken from its box, and the little boy was the focus of four pairs of anxious, doting eyes.

Jane, as his mother, claimed the right to make the first attempt. William Francis was glad to be surrounded by his favorite people. Perched in his chair, he grinned at them all equably, until the strange metal object was placed in his mouth and a strange thick paste deposited on his tongue. Sensibly, he opened his mouth and allowed it to run down his chin. The disgusted expression on his little face would have made his father laugh out loud. The women surrounding him, however, knew that this was a serious rite of passage, and were not about to let a baby think that spitting out good food was amusing behavior.

"Oh, dear!" was all that Jane said. Moll quickly gave the baby's face a wipe, and Jane tried another tiny quarter-spoonful, and this time put a finger lightly under the baby's chin. He complained, he fussed, he pushed at the offending spoon, but gradually a small amount of gruel was inside him. He did not understand why the women around him were petting and praising him, but accepted it as his due.

"Not so bad, for a first time," beamed Moll. "That's always the hardest!"

The tale of William Francis' first dinner made a large part of Jane's next letter to Tavington. She was enjoying her life in the country more than ever, and was getting to know the people who inhabited this corner of the world. When Miss Gilpin left, she would not feel utterly alone.

And, alas, the days of Miss Gilpin's visit were over too soon. There were embraces, there were admonitions, there were last minute thoughts. Jane was sorry to see her friend depart, but buoyed by the realization that Miss Gilpin could still be part of her life. They would correspond, and her old governess had promised to make a regular yearly visit to her.

The hired coach that was to take her to catch the mail coach in Chelmsford arrived, and left, and Jane remained at the front door, her thoughts turning pleasantly to presents that had arrived from Letty. She had sent Jane a book on astronomy, Moll a fine green round gown, and the baby the dearest little blue coat. Nor had Pullen been forgotten. For her, Letty sent a cap and an apron of the finest muslin. It showed a generous heart. Perhaps Letty was still Letty, and their next meeting would be a happy one…

----

The following afternoon, the house was thrown in turmoil by the arrival of an express rider. Jane was alerted to the approach of a strange man on horseback, galloping up to the door. She met the man, and a letter was abruptly thrust at her. Once she gathered what was happening, she opened the letter instantly.

_November 25, 1781_

_My dear Jane, _

_I send this by express because I wanted you to have this news before it comes to you in a newspaper or by some ignorant countryman. First of all, do not be alarmed for anyone in the family. No one at Number Twelve is dead or injured. I am writing because we have received news that Lord Cornwallis has been taken prisoner in Virginia, along with his entire army. _

_The news is entirely true. The source is all too credible. His army is lost, and with it, I fear, the war. Tazewell broke the news to me early this morning. John attended the Commons today and heard more of the dreadful details. He is under pressure to help his party by his regular presence for votes, for the political storm that is brewing will no doubt upset the applecart. He admits himself that his days of dilatory attendance are over. _

_I am glad for that, at least. He can do the cause of my soldiers and their dependents much good, if he will rouse himself from the ranks of the backbenchers. The Whigs are sharpening their knives, but even they will not attack the loyal Americans openly. I pray not, anyway. _

_Jane, I am all at sea. All my convictions, everything of which I felt certain—I am at a loss. How could a modern British army could fall prey to a pack of rabble? Surely there has been some gross incompetence. Sir Henry failed to go to Lord Cornwallis' aid in time. The Navy was strangely slothful. It is all a mare's nest of folly and corruption and selfish pride! _

_Yes, the rebels won one or two battles. I have not forgotten King's Mountain or Cowpens. But those were one two amongst all the brilliant British victories! All of those victories were in vain. I knew Cornwallis had stretched his supply lines too far! I knew this strategy was faulty!. And now, all those brave men are captives, and the Americans among them are doomed to penury and exile, and possibly worse! _

_The thought of those soldiers being forced to give up their arms by grinning rebel louts makes me feel so very low. I wonder constantly if I could not have prevented it all in some way, had I been there. How guilty I feel. If I had not been so reckless at Cowpens—if I had not got myself so horribly wounded—if I had killed Martin earlier when I had the chance—If! If! If! I can hardly sleep thinking about what might have been. It is weak of me, but I have never felt so utterly downhearted. _

_I have heard that the King, too, is grieving. There are whispers that he is speaking of abdication. I pray not. England is still strong, and does not need thirteen rebellious colonies to prop it up._ _I would say good riddance, if it were not for all the loyal and decent people who must suffer because the radicalism of a few. _

_And, of course, I simply cannot write my memoir as I first intended. I cannot cast stones at Cornwallis. I have come to realize that I do not always show much regard for the feelings of others, but even I can see how offensive and arrogant and useless it would be attack the man now. I hate having been right about his march to Virginia. I wish with all_ _my heart I had been wrong, and that he had_ _succeeded. Tarleton, I am told, was taken too, and the rebels hated him as much as they hated me. I pray that he be treated with the honor and decorum he merits. _

_And this is not all my bad news. Along with the rest, it was revealed what had become of our good friend Lord Rawdon, of whom we have heard nothing since we came to England, though he left South Carolina over a week before we embarked. _

_Rawdon's ship was taken by the French. He has been a prisoner for the past few months. The word now is that he will be set free, but after paying a heavy ransom. He is very fortunate, for his release had been delayed by bickering between the French and the rebels, who wished to have him turned over to them for execution! The French, having some decency, refused such a vile demand with the scorn it deserved. _

_I think what makes me angriest is the hypocrisy of it all. Our own brave and honorable John_ _André_ _was hanged as a spy,_ _and the rebels thought that all very fine and proper—even denying him a soldier's death by firing squad. Then we have the rebel Hayne, who was not only a spy, but also a parole-breaker who tried to secretly undermine our defenses. He was tried and hanged, and oh, the outrage! The unspeakableness of it all! And now they want to hang Rawdon? If they had any decency they would be yapping at George Washington's heels, the man who sent André to his death! _

_I know that you have never been terribly interested in the strategies and politics of the war, but you must see that they do matter—even to you as a woman. Indeed, I write to you because of all my family, you alone know what it was like. Even my fellow officers here in England do not fully understand my frustration. _

_I don't know what to do at this point. I drill my pretty 3rd Dragoons like good little toy soldiers, and meanwhile the men who have bled for King and Country are prisoners!_

_You must tell Moll what has happened. She, I know, will feel for her old comrades. It was harsh of Cornwallis to leave all the women in South Carolina, but now I am glad he did. At least they are safe. _

_This is a dreadfully stupid letter. I am completely unable to write all the proper things about the family. Expect to see me in a day or two. I will get away when I can. I cannot bear to be in London. That loathsome Charles James Fox and his idiot followers are gloating, and I think if I witness any more of it I shall do something quite unforgivable. I need to see you and talk about it all with you. _

_Yours in haste, _

_William _

Jane had opened the express letter with great alarm, wondering if her mother-in-law had died, or if William had been injured. At first she read the military news with mild concern. Another reading disclosed to her that this was the most important letter that William had ever sent her.

If she had longed to know that she mattered to him, she now had the proof positive of it. Not a florid love note written in poetical language, with her many virtues detailed and embellished upon; but a straightforward letter from the heart, speaking to her as the one friend to whom he could confide his current misery, the one to whom he could share his thoughts and feelings. She considered the letter, its unhappiness, its passionate language. Looked at rationally, it was a profoundly flattering letter.

And of course, she was sorry for the King's Men too—and more so for their dependents, the women and children who would suffer the most. Yes, she would tell Moll. Moll understood the situation. Never had Jane been so happy that she had asked Moll to accompany them to England. Moll had been a treasure—a pillar of strength. And now, Jane could feel that she had done Moll Royston a service as well. Her good servant was saved from all the sufferings that the loyal people must endure.

_I wonder if some restitution will be offered them. It would be only just. I wonder what Papa thinks of all this?_ She rarely thought of her father, but no doubt he had played both sides for his own profit, and was now sneering at those whose principles had demanded that they make their loyalty manifest. _He probably thinks they were fools._

She felt a deep unease, thinking of her relatives in Charlestown. Their loyalties were as varied as the colors of the rainbow, but they were all her kin. In one way or another, they had all borne much, whatever their views. If the British truly lost, the army would leave Charlestown at some point, and then what would happen? Jane could not predict the future, but she was certain that life in South Carolina would never be the same.

She sat down in the library, where she had been sorting through the books that needed rebinding. Here she was, in a charming if rather run-down country house in quiet Essex, far from war's alarms. For the first time since she came to England, she genuinely felt that her new situation was an improvement. She had been often unhappy with William. He had disappointed her in many ways—but in truth she was safe and content. Now her erring husband was begging her for comfort.

_He wants a friend who understands him. I can be that to him. I may not be a "Queen of Fashion," or "Beautiful as an Angel," but I can be my husband's valued friend. Perhaps, after all, that is more what a marriage should be than to be placed on a pedestal like some different species of creature. _

She organized the different piles of books carefully, and then went upstairs to speak to Moll.

-----

Tavington arrived two days later, cold and weary, a little past noon. It was apparent to Jane that he must have left very early indeed. Not since he was lying wounded in Camden had she seen him so pale and listless. She put some thought into what could be done for him. He was helped out of his greatcoat by Young, and then Jane took him by the hand and made him sit with her by the fire in the library and rest. Within a few minutes, a tray was brought in with sandwiches and a steaming cup of tea. Jane talked quietly about William Francis and his latest accomplishments, while her husband wolfed down the food.

Afterwards, his eyes were less dull when he said, "Let's go see the boy now."

He did not seem to notice Jane knocking before she entered the nursery. Moll greeted him with hearty fellow feeling, "Good day to you, Colonel! You sit down and watch this little fellow eat his porridge. That'll make you smile."

Tavington did smile, when he saw the baby sitting up in his high chair and looking about, very aware of his audience. The child had become more resigned to the strange ritual of rice porridge for one o'clock dinner, and was eating from the spoon very solemnly. Even more solemnly than usual today, since he saw his father watching, and wanted to show off his new trick for him. When he decided he had had enough, he turned his head away and shut his mouth. Tavington came over and picked up his son, running a hand over his back.

"He looks well. Considerably more intelligent than he did a month or so ago." Very gently, he used a finger to examine the two tiny white lower teeth. "He's growing up. Time marches on."

"Good thing, too," Moll grunted, folding linen.

Tavington played with his son for some time, admiring the boy's grip around his finger, noting how intently the bright, round eyes watched him. Holding the warm little bundle was somehow comforting. Comforting too was Jane's affectionate, proud look at how well he got on with his son. He thought both women were showing admirable restraint, saying nothing about the war news until he spoke first. It had to be faced, sometime, and somehow it was easier here.

"It appears that a peace is being negotiated with the rebel colonies—one that will give them complete independence. It will take a long time, obviously. Meanwhile, there will be a general cessation of hostilities."

"Is there any word about the prisoners?" Jane asked.

"None. We should hear from the rebels soon, when they make their demands. I daresay that with luck the officers at least will be released on parole."

"Bit hard on the men," Moll muttered to herself.

Tavington sighed. "You're right. They will no doubt be imprisoned until the final peace. I will be using any influential connection I have to guarantee that they receive pay for their period of imprisonment. I also have hopes that some of the provincial regiments—like our own Dragoons, Moll," he said with a faint smile to the tall woman, "are taken into the regular establishment, with pay to match. It would be some reward for their trouble. There is not much more to say until we receive further news."

"Well, all I can say is that I'm glad I ain't with the garrison in Charlestown now," Moll declared. "Must be a right downhearted place, with none of the women knowing when they'll see their men again. And I don't reckon that some fellow in New York saying that nobody should fight while they're making peace is going to matter much to those militias out there in the backcountry."

"I suppose not," he agreed.

Probably any loyal people left out there were lying low, or were on their way to safe havens like Charlestown or Savannah—or were fleeing the conflict altogether, crossing into Canada or taking ship to safer shores. Jane leaned over to give William Francis his soldier doll, and the boy waved it happily.

"I cannot expect a reply to my letter to Cousin Mary for some time, but I am sure she will have much to say. In the meantime," she said firmly, "there is nothing we can do about the situation. Worrying may be unavoidable, but it is useless."

"True. Let us worry about things closer at hand. I want to think of something else. How are the carpenters faring with the schoolroom?"

"It is almost complete! Come, let me show you." Jane took William Francis from him, placed a soft kiss on the baby's fluffy dark hair, and gave the child to Moll to put down for his nap. Than she took her husband by the hand. Her hand was warm and soft in his. Tavington was almost ashamed to find comfort in so small a thing, but comforting is was.

Jane led him about the house, showing him how well everything was progressing, except for some plastering in the second floor ceiling, which had not been finished to her satisfaction, and must be done again.

"They have almost completed the new panels for the Great Chamber. Mrs. Carter showed me some stored tapestries. Some of them are in fairly good condition, and Pullen has shown herself quite clever at mending them. They are too fragile to have the dust beaten out of them, but we are trying other methods of cleaning them more gently. Some of them are very old."

"Yes. Some of them came from the old castle. I'm surprised the moths haven't eaten them entirely."

"They were carefully stored. If we display them, it must be in a place where no direct sunlight will fall upon them. Now come and see the nursery. I have had the walls painted above the wainscot, and had the floor and the furniture scrubbed. It is beginning to look quite cheerful."

She drew him into the high-ceilinged room. The walls above the wainscot had been a dirty white in his childhood. The new pale yellow was like eternal sunshine. The worn floors and furniture glowed with polish, and windows shone clear and clean. The toy cabinet drew his eye. He wondered if his little bow and arrows were there. One summer he and John and the girls had had a rage for archery and had played Robin Hood every day for months. He reached out and touched his old bedstead.

"It's very nice. You've done wonders."

He felt of pull of nostalgia at the sight of his old haunts. The room echoed with the ghostly laughter of generations of children. His mood darkened, thinking of the world outside, and all its stupidities. The boy who had lived here could never have imagined the present disaster—

Abruptly, he said, "I can't do this right now. I must go for a walk. Forgive me. I must not let my low spirits depress yours—"

Jane was concerned at his wild expression. "Are you all right, William?"

"Yes—quite all right. I need to be outside. I shall be back for dinner, of course."

"Would you like me to go with you?" Jane asked, glancing with misgiving at the steel-gray sky. It was cold outside, but loyally she made the offer.

Tavington could see that what his wife thought of the weather. "No. I'll go alone. I'll take a gun and shoot something if I'm lucky." He muttered darkly, "I'd feel better if I _did_ shoot something."

Jane watched him stride away, anxious for him. No doubt he would be dirtier than ever by the time he was back. Perhaps a bath might comfort him a little. She went downstairs herself, to give orders for a great deal of hot water…

Tavington ran down the stairs, and slammed the library door open, looking for the gun chest. Nemesis saw him coming and jumped out of his way. A young footman, thinking from the all the noise that he was wanted, approached and then quickly backed off, seeing the look on his master's face.

Tavington smiled grimly. _A sorry thing, when I'm reduced to shooting rabbits instead of rebels!_ He loaded John's good fowling piece, threw his greatcoat back on, and stalked out of the house, turning his face up to the cutting wind. It was good to face the merciless elements. God only knew what his friends were suffering. He had gotten soft, accustomed to a life of ease. He hardly deserved to be called a soldier anymore.

He cut through the brambles of the deserted rose garden, heading for the Three Farthing Wood. Bare branches raised their arms over the lane, closing him in. He turned off the little road, and plunged into the undergrowth, crushing dead leaves carelessly underfoot. He was searching for something, but he hardly knew what.

The ground sloped downward, leading to Barrow Brook and the Long Pond. A gray crust of ice was forming at the edges of the streambed. The water was dark and sluggish. A stray thought crossed his mind, and he remembered Martin. _I wonder if he's still in the swamp._ Imagining Martin's body deliquescing into the muck of South Carolina only fed his anger.

"Bastard," he growled. "I should have killed you long before."

_May was too late: there had been Cowpens the January before. Tavington, however, had sent out scouts and found out the rebels' plans. They had waited up on the ridge, and waited, and waited, until the scurvy militia had broken and fled in fear, and then, and only then, Tavington had charged down on them and cut them to pieces. Martin was running, looking over his shoulder; running, but not fast enough. Tavington was coming in fast, very fast, his arm was scything across. Martin's head flew away from his body in a fountain of crimson gore. It bounced a few yards away. Tavington did not stop to look at it, because the Continentals were still waiting beyond the rise-- _

No, that was not good enough. He tried again to make the past conform to his desires.

_Their plan was a success. Tavington had tracked the militia to their lair in the swamp. He led his dragoons through the shallow water, hearing up ahead the startled cries as the rebels became aware they were discovered. Martin looked up in alarm, and was shot down before he could get to his horse. The rebels were falling, yes: but_ s_ome of his men were falling too. It was hard to manage the horses in the swamps. Too many of his men were falling— _

No, not good enough either. He walked faster. The sere and brittle twigs caught at his coat, holding him back. Snarling, he pushed them aside, snapping them off ruthlessly.

_Tavington was sitting on his horse in front of a white farmhouse. There were wounded there: the rebels' and their own. A middle-aged farmer, his shirt stiff with blood, was coming out to talk with him. Behind him stood his children. The eldest son had been found carrying rebel dispatches. Tavington had to make a quick decision-- _

Tavington stopped dead, at the edge of the Long Pond. He was perfectly balanced between two possible paths, and could not decide which one to take. Either would be different from his choice of May, 1780, but which one was best? He had just married Jane. He knew now that his future was assured. He needed neither Cornwallis' patronage, nor a quick success. What then should he do?

_Tavington was sitting on his horse in front of a white farmhouse. The young spy was taken into custody as a prisoner of war. The grieving family watched the departure of the blonde boy—what _was_ his name? Jane knew him and did not care for him. She did not like the Martins much at all, but what would she think if her husband hanged Martin's son out of hand? Would he have cared what Jane thought in those days? Clearly, he had not. More fool he. _

He tried to follow the ghostly trail of such a choice. _Young Martin was taken as a prisoner, and gave his parole. They all did, always. After a few months at home, he would break his parole and join the rebels again, by going north to find the Continentals--yes, that was it. Young Martin was with Gates at Camden. He was there, shooting at the Dragoons as they charged. A stray bullet struck Tavington— _

A low hiss of rage escaped him. His hands clenched the gunstock, knuckling white. _Treacherous little bastard!_ He should have killed him when he had the chance. Ah, yes, there was the other choice—

_Tavington was sitting on his horse in front of a white farmhouse. The young spy was taken, and Tavington commanded him hanged on the spot. That stupid, pale-faced boy lunged at him, and Tavington shot him. The children were screaming, and the blonde boy was crying out wildly as the soldiers dragged him to the nearest tree. A rope was thrown over a branch and the father, mad with grief, put up a respectable fight before he was killed. The house and outbuildings were put to the torch. The terrified orphans were rounded up, and given in charge to a sergeant, who would leave them with a neighbor. _

It was very tidy, and true to his nature, and saved Tavington a world of pain and difficulty. And yet— And yet—behind all the violent images was a disturbing reflection. Tavington looked at the father and for a moment saw himself._ The boy being dragged away was taller and had dark hair. Tavington gave a great, horrified gasp. No one should dare to lay hands on his son!_

"I'll kill you!" His cry was echoed by the blast of the fowling piece. In his distraction, he had squeezed the trigger. The shot ripped through the treetops, scattering withered leaves down onto the still pond. Crows swooped away, cackling their derision of his marksmanship. His nose was dripping. Roughly he wiped at it, hating that dreadful vision. The thought of anyone harming that child up in the nursery, the warm little person whom Tavington loved with all his heart—

Of course Martin had killed the escort. Killing them single-handed was impressive, but Tavington thought he could have done it himself. _I wouldn't have left any survivors to talk, either. _Ambush, surprise, enough weapons. If any group of men were stupid enough to try to take his son to his death, they would die themselves in short order. _Martin was right: nothing is so precious as a child. Hang the King and all his idiot ministers and all their blunderings! A child must always come first, or life is not worth living. _He turned back to the house, and tripped over a snaking tree root. Flailing at the air, he fell face-forward into a puddle of dead leaves and dirty water. The gun was still gripped tightly, and he hit his nose against the barrel. The pain of it stunned him briefly. He lay on the wet ground, shaking, and then pushed himself up, hard, He wiped his nose again, surprising himself with the bloody smear on his hand. It was very cold. Dimly, he thought it would be a very good idea to find Jane now.

_Tavington was sitting on his horse in front of a white farmhouse. He turned his horse's head away, and cantered south, back to Charlestown. _

* * *

Thank you to those who did like the prior chapter. I appreciate you taking the time to review.

**Next—Chapter 46: …And Life Goes On **


	46. And Life Goes On

**Chapter 46: …And Life Goes On **

Steam rose from the bath. Tavington lay back and let Jane care for him. She had shooed away Doggery and Young, once the hot water had been brought up to the bedchamber. The bath was a large one; white enameled tin with sea-green edging trimmed in gilt. It was long enough for Tavington to stretch out in it.

"You have mud in your hair. I shall wash it."

"Umm."

He was very warm and relaxed. His terrible guilt and anger had been purged, and he felt a deep stillness inside him. Jane was talking to him in her pleasant quiet way, not demanding that he respond intelligibly. She scrubbed his hair with fine Castile soap, massaging his scalp.

"Perhaps I shall ask you to wash my hair frequently," he mumbled. "It's very nice."

She looked sharply at him, worried about his state of mind. He said nothing more, and she rinsed his hair carefully, finishing with diluted lavender water.

"That smells nice," he whispered. "It smells rather like you."

Jane smiled briefly and examined his feet. Pulling her little stool closer, she set about trimming his nails.

"You don't need to do that," he objected mildly.

"Yes, I do. They're too long. If I'm allowed to bathe you, I shall do it properly. This isn't as nerve-wracking as trimming the baby's nails. That frightens me to death."

"I am delighted that I do not frighten you today."

His eyes shut again, and seemed almost to be sleeping. Jane finished trimming, and took up the bath sponge again, washing the soap from her husband's chest. The old, livid scars stood out redly against his pale skin, testament to all he had suffered in America, and now, it would seem, in vain. No wonder he was melancholy. The sight that had met her on his return—William wet and bloody and muddy, chilled and shivering, had made her dismiss all other concerns, and devote herself to giving him a little needed cozening. She felt a sigh rise up inside her, and repressed it. William was moping quite well without her help.

"So you do like what I did in the nursery?" she asked idly.

"Very much. You must forgive my rudeness earlier. I suppose I was wishing I could take up residence there again. It shows a great deal of loving care and thought. When will Moll and her little helper move in?"

"Ah—not until William Francis is weaned. It is so much more convenient for me to have him next door. And as to Moll, William, there is something I ought to tell you—"

At the same moment, he blurted out—"There is something I ought to tell you—"

They stopped, startled, and then laughed.

"You first, my dear—"

"No, you—I interrupted you—"

"Really, Jane, I want to hear your news."

She looked uneasy, but took a deep breath. "Moll and Tom wish to marry. I am very much in favor of it. We had thought that they would marry as soon as Captain Bordon was here and in orders, or as soon as we return to London."

He nearly told her that his mother never permitted her servants to marry on pain of dismissal, but then thought much the better of it. "They would still remain with us?"

"Oh, yes! They don't want to leave. They simply wish to marry. I think it would be very nice for Moll. Tom makes her happy, and he is so brave and steady."

"It would require some maneuverings in the servants' quarters. What if she has a child?"

"We can worry about that if it actually happens. I had thought about giving the two of them the little room next to the nursery, but Miss Gilpin thought they should have their own cottage. I cannot give your brother's cottages away, and I want Moll close to me. Sit up a little. I want to comb out your hair. What do you think?"

He frowned, tilting his head to allow her to run the comb carefully through his long, tangled hair. "I'm sure we can arrange something for them. It is just as well that I give you my news now, for it may change some of your plans."

She paused in her combing. "What is it? Is it more bad news?"

He did not know how to answer that, and so simply said, "You ought to know before anyone else that John is planning to marry."

"Sir John is engaged?"

She could not help smiling. It seemed so unlikely, but William was treating the matter as a serious one.

He told her, "It has not yet been announced. He cannot marry before May, at any rate, but sometime next year there will be a Lady Tavington. Will you be very disappointed?"

She did not understand at first, and then said, "Oh! I see what you mean. Of course his wife will come and take charge of everything. I see."

Truth to tell, she did feel a little disappointed, but that was unfair and irrational. "No. I always knew that this was not my house. I have had great enjoyment in putting it to rights, but I did not expect to live here permanently. Have you met the lady?"

"Yes, on the fifteenth. She is a widow, and John is her little girl's godfather."

"Is she pretty?" She laughed self-consciously. "How silly to ask! Of course she is. That is just what one asks first, you know. I should have asked, 'Is she musical?'"

"I really can't say. As to whether she is pretty—John thinks she is." Seeing his wife's arch look, he surrendered. "Oh, yes, she's pretty in a very delicate way. I do not think her health is strong. She is over thirty, and has no fortune."

"A widow? Jane smiled naughtily, and quoted, _"'And I do think she's thirty—' _Well, what say you? Is she Cleopatra or Octavia? I can rather picture John as Antony."

"Oh! Octavia, no question. Octavia to the life." He laughed a little at the image of John as Mark Antony. He certainly drank enough. "She seems very sweet. Her husband was unkind, and deserted her. She lives with her parents. John was concerned about you feeling pushed aside, and does not know how well she would cope with being mistress of a large house."

"Well," Jane said, chin up. "She _will_ be mistress of this house. Anything else would be encroaching and wrong. Even if she does things in a way I would do differently, I promise to keep silent and smile. Your brother can engage a housekeeper to help his bride. I have been told that the Carters wish to retire to their old cottage as soon as everything is a little more regular. Sir John can find some intelligent, younger woman with the energy to manage this great house, and his lady can be free to lavish attention on him and her child."

"You are too good. John has given us a standing invitation to make long and frequent visits here, and of course that will be very pleasant, and give us a good share of country life. My profession, however, currently demands that I reside in London. I have something further that I should tell you. My mother's health continues to fail. Elliott thinks that her heart is diseased. John and I have seen her will. In it, she leaves the Mortimer Square house to me. I had put off telling you, knowing that you might have taken against the place."

Jane was silent, thinking. Being far from Lady Cecily had enabled her to forgive her husband's mother somewhat. The lady was ill, after all: ill with a horrible disease that was robbing her of her wits. It was impossible to guess how she would have treated Jane had she been in perfect health. Jane could only judge her as a sick woman, a woman wronged by the husband she had once loved. It was a great mitigation, and Jane knew it was wrong to hate an invalid for things that were not within that person's control.

She finally said, "I am very sorry that your mother suffers so. It must all be very difficult, especially for your sisters who are so devoted to her. It sounds horrid of me, but one could wish that her sufferings not be—protracted."

"Not horrid at all," Tavington replied, feeling depressed again. "I pray for a quick and painless release for her every day. But Jane, the issue before us is the house. I know that you were not happy at Mortimer Square, but when it comes to us, will you consent to live there, or would you wish to sell it and find another house? I confess that I was very surprised. I always assumed that the house would go to my sisters. My mother's will is not generous to them, I fear."

"That is unfortunate, but I see nothing wrong in leaving you the house. From what you have told me, your sisters at least have their fortunes. Your brother has the Wargrave estate. Your father left you nothing. It actually seems quite fair to me."

"I feel I must consider my sisters in this. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Jane agreed. "I do understand that. For them to lose their lifelong home would be very painful—and needlessly so. Besides, I love your sisters, and would be delighted to have such friends always near at hand. Yes. I would be willing to live at Number Twelve. It is a beautiful house, and I would be proud to be mistress of it." She splashed her hand in the bath water. "Is it getting cold?"

"A little. Is there more hot water?"

She brought the pitcher over, and poured it carefully into the bath. Tavington sighed with pleasure, having no desire to ever leave this heavenly bath. He really did not deserve Jane.

He asked, "Would you not consent to visit soon? The smallpox alarm seems to be winding down, and was mostly confined to Spitalfields and parts east. As to—well, Mamma almost never leaves her rooms, and it could be assured that she would not while you were there. It would not be desirable for her to see you, any more than you wish to see her. She might or might not remember who you are. She does not always remember who I am."

Jane pushed his smoothed hair aside, and began to wash his back. "That is very sad, and I am sorry for it. I admit I would like to return to London—at least briefly—when Letty returns from her wedding trip. She seems very happy. I have just received another letter, full of her adventures. She has taken up astronomy, of all things!"

"Ha!" The thought of it was so unexpected that Tavington laughed out loud. "Astronomy! What next?"

"She met the philosopher who has discovered that new planet named for the King. I blush to admit I knew nothing of it until her letter, and then I found mention of it in some old newspapers from earlier this year. Herschel—William Herschel. I suppose I was otherwise occupied last March!"

"We both were," he agreed wryly.

"Anyway," Jane said, "She and Lord Fanshawe visited the man and looked through his telescopes. Letty was quite delighted with the views of the heavens. Her letter was so sweet and naïve. I did not know that she was ignorant of the fact that the Earth goes about the Sun. How many things I took for granted, and how poorly I educated her! I shall certainly do better with our own children."

"So she is becoming a woman of parts. What else is she doing in Bath? Attending every rout and revel, no doubt."

"Oh, no doubt at all. She has been to plays and balls and concerts, and is thoroughly enjoying herself. It would seem—I think Lord Fanshawe is very kind to her. She very nearly gushed over the Roman antiquities, and expressed great interest in Old Wargrave Hill. Perhaps—someday—your brother might see his way to inviting Lord and Lady Fanshawe here."

"I daresay. If Fanshawe lives that long—"

"Don't tease! Now that _is_ a horrid thing to say. I miss Letty dreadfully, and she says she misses me, too. I do wish to see her as soon as I can, and I suppose London would be the place for it. She will be back in early January, around the time that the King and Queen return to London. She is going to be presented at Court during one of the Queen's Drawing Rooms."

Tavington shifted restlessly in the water, slopping some onto the polished wooden floor. "And so you should be, as well! That's a very good thought. We _will_ get you back to London. By the end of December we shall all be in improved funds. We shall order you a wonderful Court dress, and you will be presented. I shall probably have to order a new uniform, for I ought to wear one on such an occasion. The King and his party will be under attack, and I want to show my support to all my comrades in the army, whether here or across the sea. And you—a Colonial lady, showing proper attention to your Sovereign—that sets a noble example of loyalty to those wretched Whigs!" His face fell. "But I shall only ask it of you, if the idea truly pleases you. I have done with consulting only my own wishes."

Very moved by such a considerate speech, Jane clutched at her husband's shoulder. "Of course I want to see the Queen. I want to see Letty, too. Yes—at the New Year, I should be glad to come back to London for a time. I shall order a grand, absurd Court dress, and bow and simper and play the fine lady until you all shout me down in utter boredom! All I ask—William—you must never flirt with other women in front of me—it hurts me, and makes me so aware of how plain I am."

"Well-" he burst out, half glad at part of her answer, and half exasperated at the rest. "—If you don't like the way I act, you will have to say so. I cannot always know you are unhappy if you don't tell me! I'm just a rough, uncivilized soldier, after all, with no subtlety and no imagination. Treat me as the blockhead I am, and just tell me what it is you want!"

"I _am,"_ she replied, with a touch of asperity, giving his shoulder another squeeze. "Don't flirt with women—I mean by that, of course, pretty, _young_ women—in front of me. You can be charming to old ladies and little girls to your heart's content!"

"Oh, Jane!" he laughed, shaking his head. "What else does my lady command?"

"Don't go off and ignore me completely when we are in company." She pushed him back again, and her hand reached lower.

"All right. I shall harass you with discreet leers." He arched a wicked brow, enjoying the feel of her hands on him as she cleaned him meticulously. "You do that so well."

"Biddy taught me, when you were wounded. She said I must learn to wash a man there properly."

His eyes closed with the pleasure of her touch. "You do it—quite properly. I think I'm beginning to be _extremely_ clean." He cleared his throat. "What else can I do to make you happy, Jane?"

"That's really all I ask. I shall have to take thought about the house. It really is a splendid place. I have everything else I want—our darling little son, our kind sisters, a good brother, and your attentions—" she blushed and looked up him meaningly—"which are so precious to me."

Reflexively, she had grasped him a little tighter, and he groaned, suddenly and completely aroused.

"The towel, Jane!" he croaked.

He stood, gesturing impatiently, while she patted him dry—or at least drier. He could not wait, and was still very damp by the time she was undressed and welcoming him into her arms. It lasted only a few minutes, for each was fiercely ready for the other, but it was very sweet.

Jane lay quietly afterwards, feeling very relaxed. So the splendid house in Mortimer Square would be hers. Despite the unhappy moments she had endured there, she thought she would be fortunate to be its mistress. It was a beautiful home. Jane had learned enough about London rents in her time in England to understand that they never could have afforded a similar residence. To own such a home outright was uncommon, and a great advantage. She considered the matter, and spoke her thoughts to her equally relaxed husband.

"We ought to do as Lucy as done, and make certain that all our servants have had the smallpox—or that they are inoculated. It was not all that expensive in South Carolina. What do you think?"

"A good idea. Some of them are quite young, so I don't know —Mamma often hires servants directly from the Female Orphan Asylum. They are bound apprentices, and thus are not paid wages for their first seven years in service. Mamma generally dismisses them at the end of that period with a good character."

"I don't—never mind. I'm not going to say anything about that. However, I do not wish to continue the practice. Perhaps that is something that Penelope can start looking into. I would hate to dismiss any servants, or force them to be inoculated against their will, but it really is safer for William Francis. Safer for them too, really." Another thought crossed her mind. "Where will your brother and wife live in town? He cannot mean to give up his seat in Parliament?"

"No. Certainly not. John is talking about taking a house of his own in the spring and fitting it up for his bride. He is quite enthused about it. He just received a great deal of money, and is—" He remembered what John had told him. "I'm sorry—this horrible surrender business has put everything else out of my head. John just received several thousand from that fellow in Cheshire who had dealings with Porter. It's not all the man owes him, but it is a good part of it. He paid me back the money I lent him. I'll be able to pay off Reynolds when my portrait is complete—"

"Oh! Is it almost done?" Jane asked.

"Very nearly—and more to the point, if you've contributed any money of your own to Wargrave, jot it down and John will repay us as soon as I'm back in London. Do you need any money, by the way?"

"I've spent very little on myself while I've been here. There might have been a trifle. I'll take a look at the account books later—"

"Do. We seem to have the money situation under control, unless some new creditor surfaces. It was quite horrible for a few weeks, but with John's sudden windfall—well, it's a shame so much of it had to go to pay Mamma's debts, but he's the only one in the family with the means of dealing with them all at once. I certainly could not have done it. Mamma owed a thousand pounds alone to Sir Barnaby Parrott! A thousand pounds!"

Jane laid a soothing hand on his chest. "I take it he is paid off now."

"Yes, by God! He can put another thousand into his daughter's fortune, in hopes that someone will be desperate enough to take her."

"William."

"What?"

"Don't criticize a young woman for being plain and well-dowered."

"Oh—very well. But it's not at all the same thing. You've _met_ Miss Parrot. She's appallingly false and empty-headed."

"That I can agree with. I doubt the family will continue to visit."

"Oh, Lady Parrot has tried. She tried to bully Penelope into letting her see Mamma. Caroline backed Pen up, though, and they got rid of the wretched woman. If she had been a true friend—but Caro thought she only wanted to gawk and then gossip about her. There have been some others, who have been better-natured. The vicar and his wife have visited, and been very kind. Mamma was almost herself with them, though particularly condescending. Caro was not sure who Mamma thought they were. When you come back to London, you might want to have a look about the house, and see what you think wants doing. It's in nothing like the bad condition in which you found Wargrave, but there was some damage from those ghastly gaming parties, as you know."

"We mustn't do anything too obvious right away. I promise to think about it. We have plenty of time. I had not thought to ask what you might like to do while you are here."

"I have already done it," he smirked.

"Yes, but afterwards?" she said, rolling over and propping herself up on her elbows. "You need to do something to amuse yourself. How long can you stay?"

"I need to be back by Friday afternoon."

"Not long, then."

"No, but I have a few commissions from John. Cobb Jeffreys needs a horse, and I'm to see if the old pony cart is worth refurbishing. If so, John wants me to find a suitable beast or two. If not, I am to contact the carriage maker in Chelmsford and order something."

Jane smiled. "He's thinking ahead; planning for the time when his wife will be here."

"Well, yes—but he also means for you to use it while you are in residence. You could at least visit locally, though I wouldn't attempt the trip to Colneford in such an equipage. I should visit my uncle. Have you seen him lately?"

"Yes. He called last week. He is very kind with his visits, and understands that I cannot return them."

"I must call on him tomorrow. Perhaps I'll do some shooting early in the morning, and then you and I can see him in the afternoon. What else would you like to do tomorrow?"

"Sleep late."

He smiled, and then stroked along her spine. "Anything else?"

"It depends entirely on the weather. If it is as cold as it is, then let us stay in tomorrow morning. We can read to one another, or play backgammon."

"Do you play chess?"

"Very badly."

"Good. Then I'll win. Is there any hot water left? It seems to me that you might like a bath yourself."

-----

Tavington rose early the next morning. It was cold but clear, and he went out with Moll and Tom after pheasant. Tom was not much of a shot yet, but was rapidly improving. They had a respectable bag in a few hours, and were back in out of the cold by nine.

Meanwhile, Jane had fed her child, ordered the day's meals, seen to the accounts, and sent a note to Mrs. Porter, putting off calling on her until after William was gone. She had even written her latest letter to Bellini--asking about his experiences at the court of the King of Sicily, and was ready to have a late breakfast with her husband.

He was in better spirits today, though now and then a shadow crossed his face. He was, at least, attempting to master his painful disappointment. There was a beautiful chess set arranged on its own inlaid table in the library. Tavington won two games handily, and was even more heartened. Jane practiced being a good loser, not much caring about such games anyway. She knew little about chess, but it was clear to her the intricacies of the game could afford a lifetime of study, if one desired to spend one's life thus. She did not. It had amused William for an hour, and that was enough.

They rang for Moll, who brought the baby down, and then vanished, glad for an hour to herself. William Francis was placed on a moth-eaten tigerskin rug in the library, and rolled about on it, highly entertained by the feel of the fur against his skin.

"How did your family come by that rug?" Jane wondered. "Did one of your relations go to India?"

Tavington shrugged. "Not as far as I know. I believe it was a gift to my grandfather, early in the century." He smiled fondly at his little son, who was patting the fur in curiosity.

"I wonder what India is like," Jane murmured. "Have you even wanted to go there?"

"Not without lavish pay and the rank of general," Tavington scoffed. "As hot as South Carolina, and a longer voyage!"

"It sounds so exotic," Jane said dreamily.

The baby's good humor abuptly changed, and he began to wail for his mother. Jane picked him up, and blushed at her husband's expression as William Francis reached greedily for a breast that her low cut gown left half-exposed.

"A gentleman of exquisite taste."

Jane clicked her tongue in mock disapproval. "Don't just sit there. Read to me."

"All right." He rose from the floor by the rug and walked over to a table, studying the titles of the books stacked there. "Is this what you're reading now?"

"Yes. I've finished _Candide._ Voltaire certainly has no use for mindless optimism."

"Neither have I. What is _this?"_ He paused with a look of disbelief and then picked up the volume. "_Fanny Hill?_ Where did you find _this?_"

Jane was terribly embarrassed, but decided to brazen it out. "In the library at Number Twelve Mortimer Square, behind Francis Bacon's _New Atlantis," _she informed him crisply.

"Oh."

"It's very—informative."

"I daresay."

Astonished and amused, he opened a page and declaimed: _"'--but presently the transport began to be too violent to observe any order or measure; their motions were too rapid, their kisses too fierce and fervent for nature to support such fury long: both seem'd to me out of themselves: their eyes darted fires: 'Oh! . . . oh! . . . I can't bear it . . . It is too much . . . I die . . . I am going . . .' were Polly's expressions of extasy:'" _

"Stop that!" Jane cried indignantly. "Don't read that in front of the baby!"

"My dear Jane, he doesn'thave the faintest idea what is going on, and he's entirely intent on gorging himself with milk! What difference can it make_ what_ I read? '—_his joys were more silent; but soon broken murmurs, sighs heart-fetch'd, and at length a dispatching thrust, as if he would have forced himself up her body, and then motionless languor of all his limbs, all shewed that the die-away moment was come upon him; which she gave signs of joining with, by the wild throwing of her hands about, closing her eyes, and giving a deep sob, in which she seemed to expire in an agony of bliss.' _It sounds rather like you, my dear."

She narrowed her eyes. "It sounds perfectly ridiculous when you just stand there reading it!"

He laughed. "It does, doesn't it? Very well, I shall take it upstairs tonight and read you choice passages in our bed."

Jane blushed, but then said, with a show of indifference, "If you like."

He stole another amused glance at her, and then looked for something more to his wife's daytime tastes on the shelves. "Have you ever read Johnson's _Rasselas?" _

"No. A copy never came my way."

"Nor have I. Let us try it."

He began, in his lovely voice, a story that charmed her from the first: _"'The History of Rasselas, Prince of Abissinia. Part One: Description of a palace in a valley. _

_"'Ye who listen with credulity to the whispers of fancy, and pursue with eagerness the phantoms of hope; who expect that age will perform the promises of youth, and that the deficiencies of the present day will be supplied by the morrow; attend to the history of Rasselas prince of Abissinia…'" _

Jane was sorry when it was time to stop and prepare to go out. The baby was kissed and cuddled, and returned to Moll and the nursery. Jane summoned Pullen, who was having a remarkably pleasant day herself, to prepare her.

Her green habit had been turned, and Jane thought it as nice as ever. Pullen thought so too, since she had been given a free hand to make some minor alternations that seemed essential to current fashion.

"I do like that color on you, ma'am. When there's a bit of money for a new habit, I should like to see you in that color again, but in a _silk_ gabardine, trimmed in gold lace. Or perhaps an apple green. Or perhaps a blush rose with green facings. That would look very well. We should make the jacket lapels wider, and trim you up a hat to match with more feathers than Lady Fanshawe's."

"I should look like a goose, with so many feathers!" laughed Jane. Knowing that their financial situation had improved put Jane in a better mood to hear about clothes. She would be calling on number of people when back in London. A handsome visiting habit was a good idea. _Perhaps green with rose facings. _

"You would look a grand lady, which is what you are, ma'am," the loyal Pullen stoutly affirmed. "If I may, ma'am, we shall have that pearl brooch with the pendants pinned to your hat, _so--_ You look vastly fine, ma'am. Good enough for any Earl of _our_ acquaintance! The pearl earbobs are very well, too."

Her face, her hair, the set of her hat: all were put in order, and Jane felt that she looked as she should, when she left her dressing room to join her husband. He was in the bedchamber, already groomed and dressed by the meticulous Doggery. The green of her husband's coat blended perfectly with her own habit. Jane glimpsed their reflection in the long looking glass and was pleased and surprised to see how well they looked as a couple.

William gave her his arm, and she went downstairs, feeling quite confident about this latest trip to Colneford. It was much shorter than her first, to begin with. Jane quite liked traveling in their coach, thinking William really had very good taste in choosing vehicles. _A good judge of horses, too, of course._

Cold as it was, it was rather pleasant to be out and about. In less than an hour, they were driving through the archway into the inner courtyard. William had grown silent, obviously dreading sharing his news with his uncle.

Jane patted his arm. "It is possible that rumours, at least, have already reached him."

"I suppose so," he sighed. "But he should know the truth as well. Perhaps he will return to town and attend the Lords, as he ought."

They were greeted very kindly by Lord Colchester, who was delighted to offer them every comfort.

"And you'll be happy to hear that Anne and Trumfleet are back!" he told them, overjoyed himself to have so many loved ones in the same room.

Both Jane and Tavington were displeased at the news, and both equally concealed their reactions. Daughter and son-in-law came soon, greeted the arrivals civilly enough, and then Tavington gave his uncle the terrible news.

Lord Colchester was sorry to hear it—sorry indeed—it was very bad—very disappointing, he was sure, after all Will had borne in the Colonies. It would be bad for the King's Friends, too. Colchester was not a very political man, but it was clear to that a storm was on the horizon.

"I daresay every vote will be needed in Parliament," Tavington hinted broadly.

Even Lord Colchester could not miss his meaning, and seemed resigned. "I suppose I shall have to go to London," he considered. "Pity, though. We had a jolly time out with the guns today, Trumfleet and I—didn't we?" he boomed at his son-in-law, who looked half-asleep.

"Oh—certainly!" Trumfleet agreed, yawning. "Bagged any number with that new over-and-under of mine. You should see it, Tavington—it's really—"

And the conversation quite departed the Americas and arrived in the oak hangers around Colneford Castle, with the two men eagerly informing Tavington of their splendid shooting that day. Tavington, when asked, admitted that he had been out that morning as well, which delighted his uncle. In fact, the disaster in the colonies was a little effaced by the regret that Tavington had not been with him when he had been shooting today, and was quite submerged by his disappointment when he found that his nephew and nephew's wife would not be joining them for dinner.

"We did not bring the child out, in this cold," Tavington explained to his uncle, "and Jane cannot be gone from him so long."

"Oh, very well, another time, my boy," replied Lord Colchester. Always ready to find something good about any situation, he complimented Jane. "That wife of yours is a good mother—a splendid mother. Sets a good example for the entire family!"

He went on, talking about local concerns, leaving Tavington very dissatisfied. It was only natural, he supposed, that his uncle and other relations should be more interested in their own affairs than in the fate of a faraway British army, but it made him feel that no one in the room understood him but Jane. He was very glad that they could not stay to dinner, which would have further distressed him.

His uncle's lack of interest in affairs of state did not, however, mean he was uninterested in his nephew. Tavington was asked about his plans for the next few days, and the conversation digressed into horses, and available horses, and who might have a nice pair of ponies for Mrs. Tavington.

"Really getting too cold for an open carriage, anyway, my boy," his uncle advised. "Best to leave it for spring, and get the ponies then. Save yourself the feeding of them over the winter. Take care of the cart business first. Either you'll have to see to the old one, or get a new one built—a neat little phaeton would be more the thing for a lady--and by the time that's done, it'll be the dead of winter."

Tavington felt his uncle had made a good point, and the talk went back to the day's shooting. Lord Colchester praised his favorite retriever, Maisie.

"Cleverest little bitch you ever saw, Will! She can find my birds wherever they fall—" His face lit up. "You still haven't any dogs at Wargrave, have you?"

"Well, no, Uncle. I haven't had time—"

"Let's go out to the kennels!" his uncle cried. "Maisie had a litter awhile back. Some are likely fellows. Come on, my boys!"

Bounding up, he made their excuses to the ladies. "Anne, my dear—my dear Mrs. Tavington—Pardon us for deserting you even for a moment. We'll just have a look-in at the kennels, and be back very smartly."

Tavington discreetly rolled his eyes at Jane, who smiled back, relieved that she would not have to walk through the leafless gardens to see a pack of smelly dogs.

"We seem to be quite abandoned, Mrs. Tavington," Lady Trumfleet remarked airily. "Not very gallant of our lords and masters, I declare! How are you finding Wargrave Hall? I heard it was the most forlorn old place in the world!"

With a limpid smile, Jane shook her head. "I cannot imagine where you might have heard such a thing. Sir John has not lived at Wargrave for some time, but it has been easily put in order. The process is quite absorbing, in fact. I have greatly enjoyed my time there."

"How fortunate." There was a silence. Lady Trumfleet studied the young woman sitting beside her on the sofa. "I have heard that my aunt is ill. I wrote to her, and received a reply from my cousin Caroline. What she suffers from is unclear."

"I believe my husband told his uncle that is a combination of old age and melancholia. She is being given every attention by her children."

"How sad. I shall call upon her, when next I am in town."

"That would be most thoughtful of you."

"Will you be remaining at Wargrave, or will return to town yourself?"

"At some point, I shall, I suppose, go to London. I am in the country largely due to a rumor of smallpox, and wished to protect my child from infection."

"How maternal of you."

Jane smiled her contempt at such a petty attempt to devalue her. "You have children, I believe. I hope they are well."

"Thank you. They are in perfect health. My _servants_ know their business."

"I did not for a moment imagine you would subject them to incompetent care." Jane smiled again, and let Lady Trumfleet make what she would of it.

That lady studied her fingernails, and then remarked, "Your sister is married, I understand. To old Beau Fanshawe!"

Expecting an attack from this quarter, Jane replied, "Yes, I have heard from her. She is blissfully happy, and has enjoyed seeing the beauties of his lordship's estate at Salton Park. They are now in Bath, and having a delightful time."

"Such a lovely young woman. A pity she did not wait for the Season! Some young ladies think they must snatch at any opportunity that comes along. I am surprised that you can be so calm, considering that gentleman's reputation."

"I would be most remiss of me to criticize my own brother-in-law," Jane gently observed. "And your aunt was so very much in favor of the match…"

Foiled, Lady Trumfleet subsided into silence. Jane wished she had brought a workbasket with her, for Lady Trumfleet had taken out some embroidery and was plying her needle, in deep concentration. After some time, she spoke again.

"I have heard from my dear sister Lady Sattersby. She is rather melancholy herself these days."

_I knew she would mention her,_ Jane reminded herself, and kept her public face intact with a mighty effort. Casually, she replied, "I am sorry to hear it. I hope she feels happier in short order."

"I am so glad I have never suffered a miscarriage myself," Lady Trumfleet purred. "It must be so disagreeable."

"A miscarriage."

"Oh, yes. It was very early, and so she did not suffer physically very much, but it has left her very low."

Jane grew grave, and swallowed the loathing she felt for a woman who would use the death of a child to score a point.

"I am very sorry for her. Such a loss must be unspeakably painful. It is fortunate that she has such a friend as you. One would not wish to confide such a personal and intimate sorrow to anyone else."

Lady Trumfleet fell silent, sensing a rebuke. She returned to her needlework, and after another few minutes, the men returned, talking loudly. Lord Colchester's voice, as always, was loudest.

"I'll send him over tomorrow. You can surely find a boy able to look after him."

"No need to trouble yourself, Uncle. He can ride in the carriage with us. It was generous of you."

"Tosh! A trifling gift. Gave you better things when you were a boy. What's a dog? Good stock, though, and he's been well trained."

"Thank you all the same, sir."

"I say, Tavington," Trumfleet broke in. "I heard the Three Farthing Wood was absolutely stuffed with game. How about hosting a shoot?"

"It's really John's, Trumfleet. I'll suggest it to him for an amusement when next he's in the country. I'm sure he'd be very glad to see you."

"Ah!" cried Lord Colchester, "Our fair ladies have been awaiting us so patiently. I hope you've had a nice chat."

Jane answered easily, "Oh, _very_ nice, my lord."

"Yes," echoed Lady Trumfleet, her voice cool as silver, "I have just been telling her about poor Kitty's troubles."

She glanced at Tavington, with a glint of amusement. Tavington assumed a look of mild curiosity, and refused to say anything at all. No doubt she would tell everyone everything in her own time. But there was not long to wait.

"A shame, that!" Lord Colchester shook his head, with real compassion. "Poor Kitty lost a child not two weeks ago. Damned shame! At least it shows there's hope. I wrote and told her to take care of herself."

Tavington said only, "I am sorry for her loss."

Lady Trumfleet studied his face, and was satisfied. "I am told they are remaining in the country indefinitely—" she lowered her voice, "—_pour faire un enfant_." Condescendingly, she explained to Jane, "that means—"

_"Je vous comprends parfaitement, Madame,"_ Jane replied, condescending in her turn. "Frenchmen _have_ made an appearance from time to time in the Americas."

"Damned Froggies," agreed Lord Colchester, oblivious to the crossed swords hidden beneath the ladies' spoken words. "Anyway," he continued, all innocence, "Bill and Kitty are staying in Dorset for the near future. Bill swears they're not going anywhere until they hold a christening. I'll have to go out to see them. In fact, I might go there for Christmas. I hate the thought of the two of them feeling all alone and forgotten, especially after such a misfortune!"

Touched by such honest concern and affection, Jane said, "I am sure you will be a great comfort to them. Lady Sattersby will be diverted from her loss, which must make her recovery the more rapid."

The Earl smiled back; thinking once again what a nice little girl his nephew had married.

-----

The dog's name was Rambler. He was not much more than a big puppy: a handsome gundog of the variety known as Red Setter.

"Or sometimes Irish Setter," Tavington told Jane, as he smiled down on the docile animal lying on the floor of the coach. "But considering what most around here think of the Irish, Red Setter is the favored appellation."

"He's quite--pretty," Jane considered. She was not much interested in dogs, but she knew a good gundog would be a great help in shooting birds. Lightly, she teased him, "Perhaps your uncle chose him because his russet coat appears so well against the green of ours!"

Tavington rolled his eyes, knowing he was being teased. "An excellent reason for choosing a dog! He's a fine animal, though. I chose him because he came to me first of all his litter mates, and seemed to like being around me. We shall have to keep an eye on him at first to prevent him from finding his way back to Colneford. He'll settle down at Wargrave soon enough."

"Is he—housetrained?" Jane asked anxiously. "Are you going to permit him into the Hall?"

"Of course he's house-trained. You know how Uncle lets his favorites romp about the Castle. Or perhaps you don't. When company comes, he's fairly scrupulous about confining the dogs to the kennels and his own study. You never saw that room, I think."

"No," smiled Jane. "I did not penetrate into your Uncle's secret hideaway. I can well imagine it, though. Not many books, and a great many guns and greatcoats and boots."

"That's it to the life!"

The dog sat up, and gazed at Tavington with brown and loving eyes. Tavington leaned over to rub the long ears. "We shall go out tomorrow, Rambler, and introduce you to all the best-smelling corners of the estate!" He patted the dog, and settled back onto the coach seat, frowning thoughtfully. Rambler rested his jaw on his new master's knee.

Tavington said abruptly, "Anne is an odious creature. When we were children, she would constantly dare us to do outrageous things, and then she would tattle on us afterwards."

Jane saw no reason to defend Lady Trumfleet. "Perhaps talking of dogs has caused you to think of her."

Tavington snorted a laugh, and then said seriously, "She wrote a letter to my mother. I saw it—the way she speaks of other women…I saw how she was to you today, trying to torment you. You dealt with her superbly, and trounced her as no other ever has. What she said—"

"What she said," Jane interrupted, "was unforgivable. To use Lady Sattersby's heartbreak to embarrass us shows that she has no decency and no conscience. I would prefer to see as little of such a disgusting woman as possible."

"I think we can limit any contact to those times when they are with my Uncle. If they are guests of his, we must invite them along with him."

"Oh, of course. I know that. I just don't plan to see any more of them than the absolute minimum. If I continue to treat her as I did today, I don't think she'll be eager to exchange calls, whether in London or in the country."

"I confess myself disappointed. I thought Uncle would be more concerned about the disaster in the Colonies. He was sympathetic, but—I don't know. I suppose it seems as remote as China or the Indies to him."

Jane, thinking of her own dislike of politics and war, felt a certain understanding of Lord Colchester. "I don't think he meant to dismiss the subject, William. He doesn't know much about it, and did not know how to discuss it with you intelligently. I believe the dog was meant as a consolation. Your uncle is very good-hearted."

"Yes," agreed Tavington, scratching the dog's ears. Rambler closed his eyes in happiness. "He's very good. I see what you mean about the dog. He was always giving us toys when we were children, especially when our parents had quarreled. I love him dearly, but I can see his faults. He is too inclined to retreat from the world and its responsibilities, and play the lord of the manor at Colneford, hunting and shooting and laying down the law to his tenants. It's a good life, in its way, but not a complete one. A man in his position, given all the blessings of life—wealth and title and great estate—should take part in public life, and work for the common good, not just his own."

"He's like Lord Fanshawe, in a way." Seeing her husband's doubtful look, Jane held firm. "Yes—I know they are not friends, but they both have followed their own interests to the exclusion of politics. Lord Fanshawe with his _objets d'art_ and his Epicureanism, is also a man who has lived his life for himself. From what I gather, they are both men of family, though your uncle seems fonder of his than does Lord Fanshawe. Letty told me—between us—that the younger grandchildren are horribly spoiled and vicious. They even attacked her—throwing chestnuts at her until she bled. They were punished for it, of course, but what nasty little ruffians!"

"How did the son and daughter-in-law treat her?"

"With cold civility. Letty clearly has no desire to see more of _them_ than absolutely necessary."

Tavington hesitated, and then told Jane, "In her marriage settlement, Fanshawe has made me the guardian of any children Letty might have, were he to die. From your description, it sounds sensible. Protheroe, too: Protheroe and I would be joint guardians."

"I suspect Letty would like a child, but the thought of that old man—it makes me shudder."

"My poor Jane—you must resign yourself to it. When we meet again, you know you must be friendly to Fanshawe, if you wish to keep Letty."

"Yes, I know. But I reserve the right to complain of it to you!"

He smiled. "Fair enough!" His smile faded. "And I reserve the right in my turn to talk about the awfulness of Cornwallis' surrender to you."

Jane laid a comforting hand on his arm. "All you like. I hate to think of those brave men suffering so, as well. Surely we will have more news, very soon. And perhaps Lord Rawdon will be back from his captivity. What a tale he will have to tell!"

"At least he will have escaped the rebel's noose," Tavington agreed, very distressed. He talked on for awhile, remembering all of his officers and speculating on their future prospects. After some time, he mentioned one that Jane knew better than the others. "Remember Wilkins? That distant relation of yours? If he lives, he must be with the army. What will he have left? I cannot think what I would do in his place!"

Rambler whimpered in sympathy, which made his new master smile again, and give the dog a reassuring pat. "Enough of that for now. There is something else I wished to speak of. John has been talking about having Christmas at Wargrave. Do you think it feasible?"

Jane considered the idea, and liked it. "It depends on how many are invited. Of course there is room for Sir John, and the Print Room is now in order, so if your sisters were willing to share—"

"I'm sure they could be prevailed upon. What about having Lucy and Protheroe?"

"Well—I did not want to move Moll out of the room next to me just yet, but if I can get the carpenters to devote themselves to the room opposite the Great Chamber, there would be a place for them. We cannot offer them each a separate room yet."

"I don't think they would expect it."

"Would—Lady Cecily? I mean--would your mother be coming?"

"No. It would be too much for her, and she never liked Wargrave. She would stay at Number Twelve with Mrs. Watkins."

"Do you really think your sisters would leave her alone at Christmas?"

He sighed. "Probably not. John will invite them, all the same. My mother hardly knows one day from another."

"Then—yes, I do think it feasible. I think it might be a very happy Christmas for us all, even with all the terrible things happening in the world. No matter what else, we can hold fast to one another."

Tavington kissed her cheek, very moved. "My dear Jane."

She smiled back, and asked, "The captured officers—once they have given their parole, where will they go? I mean-- immediately? Would they have ships to return to England directly?"

"I think not. More likely they would go to New York. Perhaps they will have their Christmas there."

"And we shall hope it is a happy one. At least they will be free."

As soon as they were home, Tavington went out to the tumbledown carriage house to see what was there. Rambler padded after him, sniffing with cheerful curiosity. Cobb Jeffreys uncovered the pony cart. It had been scrupulously cleaned and polished, but it hardly seemed worth the purchase of a pony. As the weather grew colder, Tavington could not see what use Jane could actually make of it.

Jeffreys agreed. "Not much more than a seat with wheels, you see, Colonel. It carries but one, and no room for a parcel bigger'n a cottage loaf. No top to put up 'gainst the rain, neither. Don't suppose your lady would want to put the Little Master there, even tied up fast. More for sport on a fine summer's day, like. A lady might drive it, but if she wanted company, 'twould be a tight fit."

"My uncle thought a phaeton would be more appropriate for a lady: a phaeton with a pair of ponies. He saw no point in it until the spring."

"A wise gentleman, the earl, and no mistake. Has a weather eye, his lordship. On the other hand," Jeffrey grinned conspiratorially. "A good pair of ponies wouldn't go amiss—not if it snowed. I well remember how well all your family loved a sleigh ride."

Tavington considered the matter. A pair of ponies could be gotten cheaper this time of year than in the spring. They would give Jeffreys occupation. Tavington could not see John thinking the little pony cart a suitable equipage for the new Lady Tavington. He was not sure Jane or Emily could drive the cart safely anyway; but Jane, at least, might enjoy riding a gentle pony in good weather. He could talk to John about Uncle's idea of a phaeton. Jeffreys could drive it, and Emily and Fanny could ride about to the estate and the villages—even to nearby towns—in comfort. And then there was the sleigh—and Christmas was coming…

He returned to the house and Rambler paused on the doorstep, overwhelmed with all the interesting odors. "Come on, Rambler."

It was nice to have a dog again, but Tavington was not sure what to do when he returned to London. Better to leave the dog here. Moll could make use of him when she went shooting, and he would be company for Jane.

She was not in the drawing room. He looked into the library, and found her with Nemesis in her lap. Rambler uttered a deep, menacing, "Ooof!" and made a dash for the cat. Jane glanced up in surprise, and Tavington called out, "Rambler!" in his most commanding voice.

The dog skidded to a stop on the polished floor, looking confused. The cat had pricked up her ears, but had not moved from the comfort of Jane's lap. Rambler took a tentative step closer, and lifted his nose to take the measure of this mysterious creature. As Jane smiled in amusement, Nemesis daintily sank a claw into the offending muzzle. Rambler retreated in indignant disorder.

Tavington caught him by the collar. "_That_ will teach you to meddle in ladies' affairs."

----

After dinner, they read more of _Rasselas_ to each other. Sitting by the warm fire, Jane was transported to Africa, and the adventures of the prince and his sister the princess who wished to escape from the boredom and luxury of the Happy Valley. That morning, the adventures had taken them to Cairo.

Now the story continued, as the adventurers and their attendants sought for the best "choice of life." Everywhere, they found no perfect happiness: a wise philosopher's peace was destroyed by the death of his daughter; a prosperous and generous nobleman lived in fear of the envy of the Bassa; the Bassa himself lived in fear of the displeasure of the Sultan. Whether marriage or celibacy was to be preferred was debated, and then, just as it was becoming all too philosophical, there was an excursion to the Pyramids!

"How I should love to see them!" Jane exclaimed, petting Nemesis. "I don't care if Doctor Johnson thinks it was futile of the Pharaoh to build them. There is a real pleasure in seeing new things! And such a marvel. I wonder if the good Doctor could be so philosophically dismissive if he saw them for himself!"

"I don't believe he's ever been beyond Paris," Tavington set the book aside, and leaned down to scratch Rambler's ear. "I trust that if we saw them, you wouldn't be as timid about going inside as poor Pekuah!"

"Oh, no, indeed! And now she is carried off. I wish it were not so late! I hardly know how I shall sleep tonight."

"_I_ know how you shall," said her husband with a smirk," and I'm quite sure Pekuah will not mind if we leave the rest for tomorrow."

In the end she slept very soundly, after a few pages of _Fanny Hill,_ and the activities inspired by it. She awakened to a morning of novelties and amusements in a town, even it was but Chelmsford, and not Cairo.

Tavington set off to meet with a horsedealer, and Jane, accompanied by Pullen, was left to examine the shops on the High Street. The two women found them well stocked and the merchants respectful. Jane had not had such an excursion since she left London, and now that she had a little money, she enjoyed it the more.

The bookshop had some slim volumes of stories and fables for children, charmingly illustrated with woodcuts. There was a short history of Rome. The shopkeeper, seeing where her interests lay, found for her an ABC better than her own.

Jane and her maid moved on to a draper's shop. Jane had not meant to order any new clothing until her return to London, but some remarkably fine black bombazine caught her eye.

_Lady Cecily may die, and then I shall need mourning. William thinks it could happen at any time. _"I shall need black ribbons, as well," she said, thinking out loud. Making up her mind, she ordered yard upon yard of the cloth.

"'Tis fine stuff, to be sure," Pullen protested softly, "but 'tis tempting Fate to order mourning before the time."

"Nonsense, Pullen," Jane insisted. "I shall be sorry if I pass this by, and at such a good price, too! I know you have little free time, but I would like you to make this up for me—quite plainly—a simple round gown. No doubt I shall need other things, when the time comes, but I don't like the idea of having to hide away until I have something to wear. Yes," she told the draper's assistant. "Wrap it up and put it in our coach. I should like to take it with me. Now Pullen, let's go back to that nice milliner's for the black ribbons!"

Time passed pleasantly, until William sought her out, flushed with his victory over the forces of evil, as personified by Mr. Hagglesworth the horse dealer.

"A sound gelding, and fairly young," he enthused to Jane. "Jeffreys needed a horse. He can't always be borrowing from the Home Farm. And I found two matched ponies that should please even his sharp eye. John talked about greys, but these blacks are handsome and strong. Scoggins thought they were very fine. One of them might do for a saddle pony for you, if you feel like riding. There are plenty of ladies' saddles in the stables, and Jeffreys would be glad to help you. The cart is all wrong. John would prefer---"

Jane let him ramble on, pleased that he had had such a good day, pleased that he was distracted from his great unhappiness, pleased that he had come, and wishing that he could stay longer. _He will return before long,_ she thought. _After all, Christmas will soon be upon us…_

* * *

**Notes:** Jane quotes _Antony and Cleopatra,_ the scene in which Cleopatra is informed of her lover's marriage to the virtuous sister of Octavius Caesar. 

_Pour faire un enfant—_To make a baby.

_Je vous comprends parfaitement—_I understand you perfectly.

I would have liked to have made Rambler a Golden Retriever, but that breed did not exist until the 19th century. Irish Setters are one of its ancestors, however.

A Phaeton was a chic open carriage—not as large as a barouche, but lower, and very nice for an airing.

A round gown was a gown that was _not_ split up the front, showing the petticoat.

Thank you, all my reviewers.

**Next—Chapter 47: Debts Unforgiven**


	47. Debts Unforgiven

**Chapter 47: Debts Unforgiven **

December had transformed the muddy streets of London into slicks of brown, rutted ice. Walking was hazardous: riding and driving no less so. Everyday there was a report of poor souls found frozen, huddled under bridges or in the corners of squalid courtyards. Penelope was hardly at home, so busy was she at the Magdalen and the Foundling Hospital, as the poor and neglected found refuge from the terrors of winter behind the brick walls of the great institutions.

The weather mirrored the mood of the city. News of the disaster in the Colonies continued to arrive, chilling everyone's spirits. Despite the cold, Tavington thought it was important to show himself at White's of an evening—and indeed, at any bastion of Crown support. John was attending the sessions in the Commons faithfully, and passing all the news on to his brother.

He appeared late at White's, eager for a drink and a sandwich, full of events.

"There was a further debate tonight on Sir James Lowther's motion to end the war. Lord North very plaintively declared that he wished he _could_ end it, for it gave him more trouble than anyone else!"

Tavington snorted, unimpressed. While he supported the King's ministers in public, he thought it ridiculous and self-absorbed of Lord North to wail about his troubles. _He_ had troubles? He seemed to little regard the troubles of the army and the dispossessed loyalists! To claim that his troubles were the worst! He said as much to his brother, who shrugged.

"Well, come along tomorrow and sit in the gallery. Don't wear your uniform, of course—it would be very improper. At least you can gauge the sentiment of the House. It's no better in the Lords'. Anyway, Lord North said there would be no more marching of invading forces through the colonies, but he does not want to let go of our control of the seaboard."

"There's some sense in that," Tavington observed hesitantly. "Yes. If we can hold Gibraltar throughout a siege, why not keep New York or Charlestown? They would be valuable naval bases, and deprive the rebels of their best harbors. It would not be too difficult to keep them supplied by sea."

"Ha! Well, you would know better than I. George Germain flew into a passion, and declared that he'd never put his hand to an instrument conceding independence to the Colonies."

"I'm no admirer of Lord George. His incompetence cost us early in the war. Anyway, what was the vote?"

"Lowther was defeated by forty-one."

"That's something, at least. Have another sandwich." "

Look!" whispered John, giving Tavington a nudge. "It's Strangways of the Billiard Table! He still owes us twelve hundred forty-five pounds!"

The little stack of unpaid notes was dwindling daily, but there were still some defiant debtors, who had ignored letters from Sir John and Caroline, and even the stately missives of Edward Protheroe, Esquire.

"He owes _Mamma_ twelve hundred forty-five pounds," Tavington corrected his brother.

"It comes to the same thing! Let us lean upon him a little."

Tavington picked up his glass of wine, and followed his brother. John stood over the gaming table, smiling with genial menace.

"Hello, Strangways. You've been avoiding us! I saw you at the Commons, and you were at pains not to discuss the debate with me."

"Sir John! I have been busy, and have had no time—" He paused, seeing Tavington approaching. "And your brother the Colonel, too!"

"Yes, both of us. It seems you need a reminder of a certain debt—"

Another cardplayer interrupted impatiently. "Are you going to play or talk, Strangways?"

Tavington did not allow Strangways to answer. "I am surprised that you are so eager to play with him, sir. You must be very certain you will lose."

"How so?"

"Well," Sir John explained sweetly, "if you win, you may wait some time for the debt to be honored. Our mother, for example, Lady Cecily—"

"—an infirm elderly widow—" added Tavington.

"—holds a note for a considerable sum, and Strangways here has not seen fit to pay up like a gentleman."

"I have been distracted by public business," Strangways said, growing red.

"You have ignored our letters, Strangways," Sir John rumbled.

Tavington laid a heavy hand on the man's shoulder, "--Do not think to ignore us in person."

The other cardplayers began to back away. Even Strangways' friends were looking at him askance. Sir John folded his arms on his chest, and said loudly, "And that does not even touch on what he did to my billiard table. It is quite a story, and involves a—"

"How dare you!" Strangways leaped from the table. "How dare you compromise a lady!"

The two Tavington brothers stared at each other in puzzled innocence.

"Who mentioned a lady?" asked Tavington, "However, if you wish—"

"I can have the money for you tomorrow!"

"That's –very nice." Sir John glanced back at his brother. "Isn't that nice, Will?"

"Very nice, indeed," Tavington agreed. "We shall call on you at ten tomorrow." He leaned into Strangways face, and purred, "Now, wasn't that _simple_?"

Strangways had grown white about the mouth. "You are no gentleman, Colonel! You have not used me—"

Tavington exploded. He grabbed Strangways by the collar and gave him a great shake. "_Not used you as a gentleman!_ Were you going to say that? Were you?"

John caught him by the arm, "Come, Will. We have gained our point."

"No! This fellow objects to paying his debts of honor, and has the audacity to impugn me in public! Shall I send my friends to you, sir, or will you apologize? _Right—now!" _

The card room was silent. Strangways' jaw hung slack. Tavington could not know how terrible he looked at that moment. Not many men about town had seen such a face, not even the soldiers. Tavington's eyes were pale blue fires: his face was red with fighting rage.

Strangways shut his mouth with a snap and slunk back into his chair. He gasped for breath, and then choked out, "I beg your pardon, sir. The late hour—the wine—"

John had never seen his brother like this either. He took his arm again, and spoke soothingly.

"Come on, old fellow. It is late. We'll need our beauty sleep to call on Strangways tomorrow. At ten!" he shouted back over his shoulder, as he hustled his younger brother from the room.

"Call our carriage," he ordered a servant, who had been enjoyed the drama. The man scuttled from the room, not wanting to get too close to the terrible Colonel Tavington, either.

"By God, old fellow! You know how to put the fear of God into a card room! They'll walk softly by you in future. Shouldn't wonder if this shakes some more money out of the other delinquents."

Tavington was still trembling with fury. "How dare that little weasel? I would think that at White's I would not have to listen to those insults about my conduct in the war!"

"Will-- he didn't say anything about the war."

They walked outside. The carriage was pulling up. The cold air froze the sweat on Tavington's forehead. He gave his shoulders a shrug to release his tension.

"I—No. He didn't. I lost my temper."

"No harm done. He deserved it, and the twelve hundred will go to keeping up the house. Pen's been anxious about the servants' wages, and has been wanting to get that window repaired."

"It shouldn't all go to the house, John." Tavington felt lightheaded, as his rage dissipated. If only Jane were here. She would understand him. "Caro and Pen have been paying for all the housekeeping for years. Let's give them most of the money for themselves. They said something about wanting new clothing. They shouldn't have to wait until the end of the quarter. We must make them spend some of the money on themselves."

"Quite right, Will! You make me ashamed. After all, I've another three thousand due from Porter soon. They've had a sad time of it, poor girls. I'll find a way to make it up to them!"

He spent the entire carriage ride devising presents and amusements for his sisters. After a few minutes, Tavington was calm enough to join in.

It was thus well after midnight by the time they returned to the house in Mortimer Square. Tavington found a letter from Jane waiting for him. Hoping it would lift his spirits, he did not put off reading it, but bade John a good night and took it with him to his room. A fire in the hearth flickered warmly. Doggery helped his master out of his boots and outer garments, combed out his hair, and then was told to take himself off. Tavington threw himself on his bachelor's bed, broke the seal of the letter, and read it by the light of a single candle.

_December 6, 1781 _

_Wargrave Hall _

_My dear Husband, _

_All is well here. It is cold, of course: colder than any weather I have known, but we are quite snug in the Hall. I have actually essayed some rides on Midnight, who bears with me admirably. I rode all the way to Larrowhead to call on the Reverend Mr. Hindley and his wife. Jeffreys escorted me, of course. He said I did well, and I was so pleased with myself that I rode the next day to High Wargrave and called on the Spottiswoodes. The day was colder, however; and taught me a lesson about what I ought to attempt. Unless the cold moderates, I think I am done with journeys on horseback for the winter! _

_Moll wraps herself up quite thoroughly before venturing out on to shoot game. Tom—I should call our temporary butler Young--goes with her. He recently improved so much as to actually hit the quail at which he was aiming. Moll is very proud of him, and we all enjoy the game they bag for us very much. _

_Rambler, of course, goes out with them. The dog is very fond of Moll. I hope that does not displease you, but of course she is with him all the time. I was uneasy when the dog found his way to the nursery, but he seems to mean no harm, and is curious about William Francis in a very benign way. He and Nemesis have found a _modus vivendi_—or at least called a truce. He no longer chases her, and she no longer claws him. _

_I will say that Rambler is much more tolerant of William Francis when the wailing starts than is the cat. Nemesis simply runs away as fast as possible. On the other hand, Nemesis seems fond of music—of the instrumental kind, at least. When I play the harpsichord, she invariably comes and curls up on a nearby chair. Rambler is not so civilized, and comes in, listens for a minute or two, and then trots away to find less refined company. _

_I am forever indebted to him, though, and must tell you the whole story, which I know will divert you. _

_Your uncle, Lord Colchester, came to pay a farewell call, as he is going into Dorset to visit the Sattersbys. The Trumfleets came with him, and they all stayed and stayed, until there was nothing for but to invite them to dinner, which I did. The earl wanted to see Moll again and William Francis, and he talked and talked with Moll about the Three Farthing Wood and about quail and pigeon and partridge. Lord Trumfleet awakened for that, and then wanted to see Moll shoot. And so she did, and once again "amazed the welkin" and was well rewarded for it by both gentlemen. _

_I was not about to be left with Lady Trumfleet any longer than I could help, so I went out to see the marksmanship and thus Lady Trumfleet had to trip out to in her silly high-heels. I thought we would never go back indoors again, for the noble guests kept thinking of targets and ways of shooting, and they talked the more, and Lord Colchester wished he could hire Moll as gamekeeper. I told him I could not possibly part with her, and Moll said more or less the same, and Lord Colchester was even more pleased by our mutual loyalty._

_So we had dinner, and no doubt they have had better, but it really was not too bad at all, though a little too heavily weighted with game for an elegant meal. Your uncle and Lord Trumfleet seemed to enjoy it heartily, though. They did not, thank Heaven! leave me long with Lady Trumfleet, who had little to say to me, and plied her needle assiduously on some useless piece of fancy-work. _

_I sat down to play and the gentlemen joined us. Nemesis was in the drawing room, but prudently examined the visitors from under the sofa. Rambler came in to pay his duty to his lordship, and was heartily welcomed. I was applauded, and then your Uncle asked Lady Trumfleet to sing. Her voice is quite good, I must admit, and she took my place at the instrument readily. She began the first bars of the accompaniment of an Italian air, and all was well, until she opened her mouth in song. _

_Instantly, Nemesis jumped away from beneath the sofa, directly between the dozing Lord Trumfleet's feet! "Heyday! What the devil!" cries his lordship, sliding off the sofa onto his bottom. _

_His lady was quite put out at the interruption, but this was only the overture to the main action, for Rambler, sitting by Lord Colchester's knee, began to study Lady Trumfleet in a puzzled way as she sang, his head turning this way and that. In a moment more, he uncertainly joined in with his own part to second hers: a low "Ooooooeeeeuuh! Ooooow! Uuuuuwooo! Huuuufff!" He was even in tune! _

_Their lordships burst out laughing. They both of them absolutely roared. Rambler jumped up, darting eagerly back and forth, obviously concerned for them, all innocent of the offense he had caused Lady Trumfleet. I could not quite keep my countenance myself, but jumped up myself, and hauled Rambler away, and gave him into Young's keeping (not without a discreet pat and "Good Rambler!" to send him off). _

_Lady Trumfleet pushed away from the instrument in anger, but both gentlemen begged her, with tears of laughter in their eyes, to continue. They would try to compose themselves and then start snickering again. I have never liked Lord Trumfleet so well as that evening! _

_Her ladyship was so angry as to accuse me of having taught the dog to mock her—she was quite enraged--but I pretended bewilderment, and pointed out that he had been trained in Lord Colchester's own kennels. _

_That made the gentlemen burst out laughing again, and they tried to get Lady Trumfleet to see the humor of it all, but with no success. Lord Colchester, indeed, wondered if all his dogs could do thus. If so, he would put them on the stage in London and live off the proceeds! I fear her ladyship will never forgive me, but the gentlemen told me they had never spent a pleasanter visit. _

_More seriously, my dear William, I was given to understand by Miss Gilpin that it is customary to give presents to one's servants on Boxing Day. I have enclosed a commission with measurements for quilted petticoats for Moll, Pullen, and Rose. You have seen the new gown that Letty sent Moll. I would like the petticoat to harmonize with that. I would like Pullen's to be of perhaps a dark red—something that would brighten up her grey clothing. Young Rose's can be a blue. At any rate, please show my note to your sisters and give them whatever money is needed. I know that they will see to it. __Tom Young's measurements are also enclosed, and he should be given new livery and a new wig. _

_As to everyone else: I have enclosed a list of the other servants. Consider what you wish to do. I consider the aforementioned four our own servants, but the others are more Sir John's than ours. I suggest dress lengths for the maidservants, livery for the men (whose garments, you have seen, are currently very rough-and-ready), and something a little better for the Jeffreys and Carters, perhaps good coats and cloaks. _

_However, if you do not wish to trouble your brother, I still feel they must not be forgotten, even if we must pay for it. Everyone has worked very hard. I have no idea what the usual practice at Mortimer Square might be, but I must leave that with you and your brother and sisters. _

_I would like to give some trifles to the little Porters. Perhaps your sisters could find some sweets or toys for them—something that they can say was from London! I call on Mrs. Porter every Thursday morning. She is a very gentle creature, and her children are well behaved. Porter has been very diligent, and seems to react well to any courtesy shown his family_. _He agrees with me about the sheep._ _Unless Sir John wants to devote quite a bit of his resources to Merinos, he is better off with a small herd of black-faces simply to provide mutton._

_Do not let those Whigs depress your spirits. Those that are high today are low tomorrow. Their day of reckoning will come, with their pandering to the French and rebels! It is all very well thousands of miles away, but I cannot imagine the great Whig lords feeling much satisfaction in the republicanism of the Continental Congress coming to roost on their own doorsteps! And the French! The hypocrisy of an absolute monarch sending forces to support democratic demagogues! He will regret it, I predict (not because of any great political acumen of my own for you know I'm a perfect fool about politics). However, it is simply plain sense that his soldiers will be infected with the radicalism of the rebels, and mighty King Louis might find himself hoist with his own petard! _

_Enough of those Jacks-in-office! I cannot wait to see you at Christmas. Please let me know as soon as possible who will be coming. We have worked very hard on the house, and the carpenters have turned their attention to the Tapestry Room (for so I plan to call it again). _

_Do not allow yourself to be lured into any duels, however provoked you are. I think dueling is a dreadful custom. If you were in a duel, you would win of course, but it would prove only your superior skill at arms, and would not change anybody's mind about party politics. And if you killed someone—God forbid!—you would have to flee the country, and your enemies would only say it proved them right about the horrid things they said about you before. Nothing can be gained by it, and a good deal lost! _

_And so, shake off their paltry taunts with the contempt they deserve. You said truly that final victory cannot be taken for granted. That is a lesson the Whigs have yet to learn. _

_Awaiting the holiday with impatience, I am _

_Your obedient wife, _

_Jane _

Tavington smiled and snorted by turns throughout the letter, enjoying the wonderful picture of Anne's humiliation, and exasperated that Jane would presume to tell him not to duel. Of course dueling was illegal, but it was done anyway. He had nearly committed himself to a duel this very night. He could not and would not let a personal insult go unrevenged, but he hoped he would not be put in such an invidious position again anytime soon. Whether it could be avoided in the long run was questionable.

_What a bitch Anne is_, he thought for the thousandth time. _She simply had to gloat over poor Kitty. _He would always wonder if the lost child were his. Poor little creature. He would never again be so careless. He ought to have learned his lesson from South Carolina.

Briefly, he wondered how his little son there was faring. Was he safe? Was he well? Was he well cared for? Had Selina already grown weary of playing the devoted mother? He shut his eyes, feeling rather sad about it. Perhaps he and Jane would have another child in a year or so. He quite liked being a father. William Francis should have a companion or two. He drifted off to sleep, picturing an unlikely number of pretty dark-haired children running riot in the nursery…

In the morning, he considered Jane's commissions, and decided Pen would have to be the one to undertake them, for that morning Caroline was in an utter vortex with her novel-writing. Mamma had taken a turn for the worse, and now when Caroline sat with her, she could openly write on her story, for Mamma rarely left her bed, coming out only to lie, half conscious, on the daybed for a few hours.

Tavington disliked going into Mamma's rooms. With the constant habitation, they were developing a shabby air, and a certain pervasive odor that was not entirely disguised by the perfumed pastilles that Fabienne tossed into the fire. It was a painfully slow decline, a few pebbles rolling down a hillside, wearing away the statue of a goddess. One longed for a bolt of lightning to end it all with dignity—not this ugly chipping away.

Staring at the ruin of his mother, a grim thought crossed his mind. _If I ever fail like this, I hope my family will forgive me if I put a pistol to my head. _He looked uneasily at Caroline, imagining for a moment that she might have guessed his thought. No: she was scribbling away, her face set in concentration.

When she finally set down her pen, Tavington asked, "Have you and Pen made up your minds about Christmas? I know Jane longs for you to see Wargrave. So do I."

"Oh, my dear Will," sighed his sister. She spoke to him in a soft, low whisper. "I so wish I could go. It's just not possible. Every sign points to it being Mamma's last Christmas."

"She doesn't know what day it is, Caro."

"_I_ would know. I could never live with myself. It doesn't matter if Mamma has sometimes—been selfish. She is old and ill and I will not leave her now. No more will Pen. That does not mean," she added anxiously, "that I think it wrong for you and John to go. You ought to be with your wife and child, and John has duties to his estate and his tenants. Next year we will gladly go, and enjoy it the more knowing that we did right by our mother. We shall have no regrets to torment us."

"When Mamma is gone, Caro, everything will be different. You and Pen will be free to travel, free to come and go—"

"A lady is never completely free, William. I grant you that we shall be freer than we have been, but still—"

"Don't talk like that. Of course no one wants either of you to kick over the traces and run away with the Gypsies—" Caroline gave a soft, incredulous laugh. "—or start a prophetic cult, or anything absurd. However, we could travel—go to the sea side—go to Bath—go to see Uncle at Colneford. When the war is over, we could all go to Paris. You'd like Paris, all you accomplished ladies. Don't you have any dreams, Caro?"

"Once I did. Over the years, I've had to put by the most precious, and very few are left. Let us see: I would like to publish my novel; I would like a niece—or several nieces; I would like to invite Dr. Johnson to dinner—"

"What a splendid idea! We shall, when Jane comes to London in January. We are at least acquainted, and if the old doctor is up to it, invited he shall be. Jane and I read _Rasselas_ when I last visited Wargrave, and we owe Doctor Johnson some pleasant hours."

"Pleasant? _Rasselas_ seemed to me melancholy. Beautiful—yes—but melancholy. As much a meditation on the Vanity of Human Wishes, as his old poem of that name. Nonetheless, I should like to have the author at our table."

"I shall secure him, one way or another."

"Don't promise more than you can perform, dearest. Mamma—" she lowered her voice again. "We may have to go into mourning. It could happen at any time."

"We shall plan for the worst, and hope for the best, my dear." Tavington said, wanting to encourage her.

He kissed her pale brow, and then, feeling guilty, he went over to his mother and kissed her too. She did not respond immediately, but then looked up, with a sweet and dreamy smile of pleasure.

"My dearest," she murmured. Tavington could not know if she meant him or another.

-----

Penelope nearly snatched the list from his hand, glancing through it eagerly. "Oh, how I love to buy gifts for children! And those good, faithful servants! Dear Jane's lists are so precise. Here are measurements—here are ages for the children—so very methodical. It will be no trouble at all, William. Sweets for the little ones! How I wish I could see their happy faces. No, my dear—Caroline is right, you know. She and I must stay with Mamma. In another year William Francis will be older, and understand what Christmas is, and how happy we shall all be together. I hope there will be enough money for the servants here, too! Yes? Oh, I'm so relieved to hear it! My dear, would you consider giving a little yourself to the Foundlings? Even a guinea or two makes such a difference! Oh, thank you, William, we plan to give the poor children a treat—goose and plum pudding for them all. There will be a charity concert too—selections from the _Messiah_—and dear Mr. Bellini will sing the airs for the bass. I shall write to Jane and Lady Fanshawe and describe it all. I heard from Lady Fanshawe just last week. Did I not tell you? She is quite happy and becoming quite the blue-stocking. She has persuaded Lord Fanshawe to buy a telescope from a Mr. Herschel, and have it installed at Salton Park. They shall have "Star Parties" when the weather is more favorable. Such a marvelous idea."

"Pen! Slow down, I pray you," Tavington laughed.

With Mamma's debts in better order, Pen had become more cheerful, and was no longer ashamed to show her face in public. Tavington took his sister by shoulders, and kissed her cheek.

"I asked Caro this, but I want to ask you as well. When the time comes, and your attendance on Mamma—is no longer required, what would you like to do? I suggested that we all do some traveling—get away from the city—"

For a moment his sister looked concerned, "I don't know, my dear! I've never thought that far ahead… I cannot be gone long, William. Too many people depend on me—"

"My dear, all you do are things for others. What would you like for _yourself?"_

"I don't know," she faltered. "It's wrong, isn't it, to think of oneself?"

"Not wrong at all!" Tavington said testily. "Perhaps your clergymen friends would say it's wrong never to think of anything _but_ oneself, but I am quite sure you are permitted a moment of self-regard. It would at least give me the great pleasure of doing something for you. You mustn't deny people the chance to be kind in their turn." He could see her considering his words.

She asked, "What does Caroline wish for?"

"To publish her novel, To have a niece—"

"A niece—" cried Penelope. "What a good idea!" She eyed her brother, looking hopeful. "Is there any possibility—?"

"Lucy is expecting another child in June. That is the only new addition I can promise. To go back to what you asked before, Caroline would like to invite Doctor Johnson to dinner."

Penelope looked more doubtful. "A worthy man—a great man, but with manners—I have heard—not the most refined at table. Still—if that is what would please Caro, it is very well. As for me, I should like to have regular tea parties for my fellow laborers in the field of charity—" She cast him an anxious look. "—but we shall have to see if that is possible."

"My dear Pen, you may invite whom you like. I have been meaning to tell you that it appears that I shall inherit the house. I have discussed it with Jane, and we both very much want you and Caro to live with us. And we shall not be taking your money for housekeeping. No—don't look like that, my dear. Think of the other things you can do—"

His sister's face glowed pink with pleasure. "I can assist poor scholars in their education-- or buy apprenticeships for those unhappy girls in the Magdalen!"

"Yes, yes, Pen!" her brother said impatiently, "but do keep a _little_ for yourself!" He thought over what else needed doing. "There is something for Jane—"

"Oh, yes! Dear Jane must not be forgotten."

"No—and I shan't forget her, but since you deal with the servants—could you see if they have had smallpox? If not, I would like you to make arrangements for their inoculation. Lucy's servants are all proof against the disease, and Jane is more like to return with William Francis if she feels safe."

"That is an excellent idea. The Matron at the Magdalen knows a skillful inoculator—"

"Yes—and by the way, We are about to collect on one of Mamma's more substantial debts. Perhaps you could have a fellow in to repair the damages to the upholstery? I am hoping to persuade Jane back to town in January, and I would like the house looking as it ought by them."

Penelope laughed. "If it is enough, I shall even have the billiard table repaired. Somehow that was damaged too, and John has never stopped buzzing about it!"

-----

The business of Strangways' debt was handled summarily. They appeared at the man's door at ten punctually. They were shown in, and a parcel of banknotes was handed them by Strangways' younger brother, who looked at the younger Tavington brother as he would a wild beast.

It was rude, but John took revenge by slowly counting out the money in a loud voice that echoed off the ceiling. He then returned Strangways' promissory note as paid, and the two Tavingtons were out the door and back in their carriage before a quarter-hour had passed.

Now that there was some cash in hand, Tavington told his brother about his letter. John took Jane's reminder about presents for the servants seriously.

"What a mean dog I've been! Of course I'll pay for the servants' presents. I'll give Pen the money and she can get the gewgaws for the women. I'll order liveries for the menservants, of course—a good idea to smarten them up a bit. Nice of you to offer to pay for Young's things—I really ought to. He's been doing a fine job as butler out there, and I've a mind to make it a permanent situation."

At this point, Tavington interposed, telling John about Tom and Moll's wish to marry. Jane would certainly want Moll to stay with her in London.

Very wisely, John remarked, "I've no doubt that Mrs. Royston is fond of your wife, but all things being equal, I'll bet serious money that she would rather have a cottage of her own on the estate, and the right in perpetuity to shoot birds. And Young could not do better than remain. I'll not push the matter, but someday your Jane will see it as I do."

"She would miss her sorely, John. She is still not quite over the shock of her sister's marriage."

"Who could be?" John laughed, and then shuddered. "Time, however, changes everything, and Love conquers all, as they say. I daresay your Mrs. Royston would like to have a child of her own someday."

"She had one. The little boy died."

"All the more reason! Anyway, back to planning. Father opened the house to the tenants on Christmas Day, but I'm not sure that would work out well, with all the time that's passed. They might not know what to do, anymore than I. Instead, I'll go about in the morning, and give everyone some meat and ale for their holiday cheer--and perhaps a pudding or some fruit. Ha! They'll take me for Old Father Christmas, come back after a long absence!"

-----

Tavington had thought his holiday plans well in hand. Events conspired, however, to throw them into confusion. Only three days before Christmas, Jane received an express from her husband.

_December 22, 1781 _

_My dear Jane, _

_I am well, and still coming on Monday. We have received news of a startling nature that has caused us to amend our arrangements somewhat. John and I are coming, as are Edward, Lucy, and their son. There will be another couple, another maidservant, and a few more children. I cannot write longer, for fear that this will not be sent in time. Do not be alarmed._

_Yours in haste, _

_William_

"'A _few_ more children!'" Jane exclaimed, waving the letter at Moll.

Some of the new footmen, carrying in holly and pine boughs to decorate the Great Hall, thought she was impatient with them, and began hurrying about their work.

"What does he mean—two, three—a _dozen_? What does he mean, 'Don't be alarmed?' What does he mean by sending me such a message? This is just like a man!"

"Well, the Colonel _is_ a man, so I reckon it's only natural he's like one," Moll pointed out pragmatically. "I'll plan for three more, and hope they're not old enough to be trouble. I was figuring on putting the Colonel's nephew in the nursery with Little Will. The men are bringing down a bed from the servant's quarters for the Protheroe's nursemaid and the little boy. Let's plan on spreading out to the nursery upstairs. It'll do for another batch of young'uns."

"A _few_ more children! Really!"

* * *

**Next—Chapter 48: The Kissing Bough **


	48. The Kissing Bough

**Chapter 48: The Kissing Bough **

Jane was expecting the Christmas guests to arrive sometime after noon on the twenty-fourth. She had ordered that refreshments were to be ready by one, and that all the beds in the house were to be made up. Unsure how many might be coming—masters, children, and servants—it was best to be completely prepared. She periodically prowled the house, anxiously looking for anything left undone. The Tapestry Room still smelled of paint, but it was otherwise ready and welcoming. The nurseries were furnished and waiting. Vases and urns were filled with holiday greenery. Holly garlanded the mantelpieces: balsam and juniper filled the rooms with their fresh scent. Mrs. Carter had created a wonderful decoration for the chandelier of the Great Hall.

"You cannot have a proper Christmas without a Kissing Bough," she declared. Jane watched, admiring, as the old woman wove together a great bundle of evergreen, decorated with clove-spiced apples and a rainbow of ribbons; and then suspended from the bottom of it a huge bunch of mistletoe, which young Joe had climbed into a great oak tree to retrieve.

"Some folk call it a Holy Bough," she related as she worked. "And some make it into a ball, and that's a pretty sight; but at Wargrave Hall, we've always used the chandelier in the Great Hall. 'Tis round, and it has candles, and so is just right for the Bough."

When every ornament was in place, and every ribbon pinched into pertness, the green-bedecked chandelier was hauled up into place. Jane was enchanted with it. She moved the big table out from under it, and put it against the wall. If Sir John took it into his head to play some Christmas games, the Great Hall would be just the place. _Or perhaps we might have a dance… _

A tenant had come, a few days before, hat in hand, to ask her if "Her Honor might permit them to wassail the trees this year."

Jane did not understand what he meant, and it was revealed that Mr. Porter had thought some old local tradition wasteful and heathenish. Very righteously, the tenant told her that "Doctor Crumby, bless his good soul, had never said a word agin it, for he liked to hear of the old ways."

"How does one 'wassail the trees?'" she asked, bewildered.

And then the tenant, and some servants, and Mrs. Carter joined in; telling her how it was a custom at this time of year for some of the 'lads' and indeed some of the 'lasses,' and in fact everyone who could spare the time, to go out to the orchards and shout rhymes at the fruit trees to assure the next year's harvest. "And sometimes to lay some bits of toast sopped in wassail at the tree roots as an offering." It did indeed sound suspiciously pagan to Jane, but harmless enough, and quaint, too. She could not imagine John objecting to it, and said so. From the excitement that ensued, she wondered if she had made a mistake.

The day before Christmas arrived, and no morning was ever longer. After telling the servants to keep Rambler away from the guests, Jane wandered forlornly through the halls, and finally appeared in the nursery. She fidgeted like a little girl, provoking a smile and a shake of the head from Moll, who sat her down and gave her some yarn to wind. Soon she was at the window again, but saw no one but Porter on the old nag that was left to him, riding out toward the highway, as he often did. The horse was loaded down with parcel and bundles_. He must have Christmas visits of his own to make, _she supposed. _I hope the children like the sweets I shall bring them._

The clock struck one, and Jane began to feel very put upon. William Francis ate his porridge with great solemnity, and the clock struck half-past. Finally, there was a squeal from a maid at an upstairs window, and Jane rushed to see for herself.

A procession of three coaches was coming up the road. Jane saw that William's coach was in the lead. She recognized the Protheroe coach bringing up the rear. Between them was a coach she did not recognize at all, and that she supposed belonged to their mystery guests.

"A _few_ more children!" she muttered indignantly. "Perhaps Penelope has sent the Foundling Hospital on an outing! Rose, finish feeding the baby, and try to put him down for his nap. You must be prepared for noisy intrusions, I fear. Come, Moll, let us see how many are in a _few_!"

Tom Young was the only manservant with proper livery, and made a dignified figure as a butler. He rallied the footmen, and quickly had them in position to receive company. Mrs. Carter bustled up, excusing herself for nearly being tardy.

"Poor Amos needed settling, ma'am. He's getting very feeble."

Jane spared her a brief, sympathetic word, and then three coaches and twelve horses were upon them. Jane groaned inwardly, thinking of Cobb and Joe dealing with such a crowd, considering the state the carriage house was in. The coachmen would have to help see to their own teams. She wondered if anyone was bringing a lady's maid. Pratt and Doggery had come along, riding up with the coachmen. Such a crowd! She was grateful that they had not overburdened her with footmen, at least. Doggery was riding on their own coach, and did the honors of the door.

Sir John leaped out, very excited. "My dear Mrs. Tavington! Such a surprise for you! No, I've been threatened with death if I blab. Will want to tell you himself—and here he is."

William stepped out, an unreadable expression on his face. Happiness—yes—he seemed happy to see her, but ill at ease, as if he was concerned that she might be upset—but then there was the happiness again.

"William!" she cried. "Tell me now what is going on! Your letter was a complete puzzle!"

"My dear Jane--" He looked at her, seeming at a loss, and blurted, "It is better to show you than to try to explain—"

Tavington walked back to the carriage, reached inside, and lifted out a small child. A boy not yet three years old, still in his infant dress, with a warm cloak wrapped around his little body. A very pretty, very blonde boy, with long pale hair in curls—

"Ash!" Jane screamed, and broke into a run. "Ash! Little Ash!"

She snatched the surprised toddler from her husband and pressed him to her heart. The little boy struggled.

"Down!"

Jane was both overjoyed and bewildered. She tried to attract the child's gaze. "Don't you know me, Ash? I'm your sister Jane."

"Sissah—Jane!" he shouted, not connecting the words with the wild-eyed woman holding him tightly. "Down!"

A short, unknown nursemaid was at her elbow. "If you please, ma'am. I'll take him. It's time for his dinner, you see."

Jane, in a daze, handed her darling little brother—who seemed pale, but otherwise healthy—to the stranger.

Tavington only had time for a brief, apologetic smile, before John produced a basket which held another child. This was still a babe in arms, his small hand holding a much-gummed rusk of bread-- a tired, dark haired boy much like William Francis, but a few months older—

"That is Thomas, isn't he?" Jane asked, feeling numb. Tavington quietly nodded, and handed the basket off to a waiting footman.

The occupants of the second carriage had emerged, and a sturdy, red-haired man was heading her way, looking grave.

"Captain Bordon—you are here! I am astonished!"

"Yes, Mrs. Tavington, we arrived in London but a few days ago, and called directly on your husband with our news and our—charges."

"You received his letter, though?"

"No," Tavington interposed. "Bordon never received my letter, for he and his family had already left for England before it could arrive. Let me make Mrs. Bordon known to you, and then let us go in and Bordon can tell you all."

Lucy and Protheroe were bringing up the rear, smiling, with Little Ned and their own nursemaid. Jane, still in hopeless confusion, gave thanks to God that she had made the nurseries a first object. Moll would have two—new nursemaids and three—no, _five_ new children to care for. The Bordons, it seemed, had two of their own, a girl of about four and a smaller boy. No wonder William had sent an express!

"Harriet, my dear, this is Mrs. Tavington. My wife, Mrs. Bordon."

Jane could hardly process what the man was saying, but Mrs. Bordon, a slender woman with lively black eyes, came to her rescue. Her two children followed in her train, looking about in wonder. Mrs. Bordon shook Jane's hand very kindly.

"No doubt you feel like this is the Sack of Rome, and we are the invading hordes! I am Harriet Bordon, Mrs. Tavington, and I will tell you all the compliments my husband has paid you after you have a chance to count the barbarians."

Arrangements had to be made, and quickly. Jane, still stunned, turned to Moll, and said stupidly, "I don't believe you have met my brothers, Ashbury and Thomas Rutledge."

Moll seemed unconcerned by the sudden invasion. "Why not put the Colonel's nephew and the Captain's little'uns in the old nursery upstairs? Plenty of room for them and the servants girls too. We can try taking in your little brothers downstairs. The older one might not take to be separated from the others, though."

"I'm not sure—I suppose. I don't know whose servants are whose. My brother Ash---oh, dear…"

Tom—or rather Young—to give him his due as a butler, reassured her. "We'll see to everything, ma'am. Don't worry. We'll get the little ones sorted out, and we've already prepared the rooms for the guests. The Tapestry Room for Mr. and Mrs. Protheroe, and Miss Gilpin's room—I mean, the Print Room-- for the Captain and his lady."

"Yes, thank you, Young," Jane answered, relieved that he was handling it all as a matter of course. Indeed why should he not? He had not just greeted a long-lost brother—a brother considered forever lost!

Harriet Bordon touched her arm. "If it is not an imposition, ma'am, I shall keep my two with me for a little while. It will give the servants more time to settle the babies."

Moll looked at her approvingly. Jane dithered, "Yes, of course. Let us go to the drawing room." She smiled down at a snub-nosed little red-haired girl. "Perhaps some cake…"

Tom and Moll organized the children and maids and led them upstairs. Jane called after them, "I shall up be up later to help, Mrs. Royston!"

"Don't worry yourself, ma'am!" It sounded a little like an order.

"Please, follow me. You are all very welcome."

Jane told Mrs. Carter to have the refreshments brought as soon as possible, and she led the chattering procession to the drawing room. The group moved slowly, admiring vocally as they went. Sir John gave a shout of delight at the sight of the Kissing Bough in the Great Hall.

"Ha! That brings back old times! Eh, Lucy?"

His sister laughed, and to the amusement of all, she spun the dignified Protheroe about for a quick kiss. She laughed at his pleased embarrassment, and said, "Reach up and pluck a berry from the mistletoe! As long as there are berries, you can have a kiss!"

Harriet raised a questioning brow at her husband. Bordon only smiled, and gave her a _"later"_ look in reply.

To her surprise, Jane found herself kissed very tenderly by her husband. Tavington plucked a white berry from the bough, and touched her cheek. Jane smiled blankly, enjoying the kiss, but in a fever of impatience.

Tavington took her by the arm and whispered to her. "I wanted Bordon to tell you the news himself, instead of giving it to you second-hand. I know this is a shock. He has letters for you, too."

John apparently knew what was going on, and was properly playing the host. He seemed as happy to have his drawing room full of pleasant people as his own Uncle Colchester could ever be.

Tavington said to the room at large, "Please excuse us while Captain Bordon and I take Mrs. Tavington away from you. We shall not be long."

Jane was glad she had ordered fires lit in all the rooms downstairs, for she felt oddly cold. Her husband led her to a chair, and stood by her, holding her hand. The two men looked at each other, and Tavington gave his friend a nod.

"My dear Mrs. Tavington," Bordon began. "I bear heavy news. Your father, alas, is dead."

Jane let out a breath. She had suspected some disaster, and here is was. Her eye was caught by a slight movement, as the long tail of Nemesis withdrew further behind a drapery.

Bordon continued. "He died in September, of a sudden apoplectic stroke. He had suffered one before, I believe."

Jane nodded, unable to answer. _Papa is dead! _

"He had," the captain told her, "for some time been playing a double game, giving assistance to both the King and the rebels. He played that double game just a little too long. It was your cousin, the rebel governor John Rutledge, who found him out. The rebels declared his property forfeit as that of a traitor to their cause. The shock was too much for your father. He was struck down and died not two days later. I condole with your loss."

"Thank you," Jane muttered thickly. "But the boys—what of Selina, my stepmother? What of Mrs. Rutledge?" The name, strange in her mouth, troubled her. She had not thought or spoken of Selina in months.

Bordon paused. Tavington said sharply, "Tell her everything, Bordon. It's best she knows the truth."

"Very well. Mrs. Rutledge fled Charlestown immediately following your father's burial. She joined some relations on the rebel side, but not before obtaining what monies of your father's she could."

Jane's lips twitched in disgust, picturing Selina looting Papa's study. He always kept quite a bit of money there. "She did not take her children with her?"

"She feared, it seems, that they would slow her departure. She left them with a relation, Mrs. Laurens, from whom I bring a letter. I have letters from other relations of yours as well."

A quick, ugly laugh of surprise. "Cousin Mary? She cannot have liked that!"

"She did not. To do her justice, she did not feel equal to caring for two small boys. As you will see in her letter, she felt that, absent the children's parents, no one was fitter to take charge of them than their own sister. As I had resolved to leave the Colonies, she asked me to see to their safety. All in all, I decided it was better to do as she asked. I knew you were very fond of young Ashbury, and that you would be anxious if there were no secure provision for the children. As their father's poor judgement has deprived them of their inheritance, Mrs. Laurens and I decided that their best chance would be to salvage what remained of their father's resources, convert them to cash, and send the boys far away from the war. I hope I have not erred."

"Oh, no! No! I thank you from the bottom of my heart. This was very kind and generous of you, sir. I know it cannot have been easy, traveling with two little children who were no relation—"

He laughed slightly. "The voyage to New York had its difficulties. I hired a wet nurse to care for the boys and suckle the younger one, and no sooner were we in New York than the woman vanished with her wages. Once in New York, of course, I could shift the problem over to my dear wife and our own clever nursemaid. Luckily, there was a good woman who lived near our lodgings who could nurse Thomas, and during the voyage back there were army wives able to assist us. Fortunate, also, that young Master Thomas has been precocious in learning the use of a cup! The young woman I engaged for the journey here in England was not interested in a permanent position, as her home and family is in Bristol, where we disembarked. She has already returned home. We came on to Essex, hoping to find someone in the neighborhood who could suckle the poor little fellow."

"We can never thank you enough, not just for your expenditures—for which I have already reimbursed him--" Tavington assured Jane in an aside. "But the generosity of both you and Mrs. Bordon-- I can only imagine how hard it must have been—four children at sea in a cabin."

Bordon shrugged. "It was a good sized cabin, after all. As I said, a number of women helped us. We managed well enough. Crying children do not much disturb me."

"Papa is _dead,"_ Jane whispered. "I must go into mourning."

Tavington said kindly. "Do not concern yourself with that. Or better, after we have left, you can have something made up. Three months of deep mourning are already over, anyway."

"He was dead, all these months. And Selina simply abandoned her children! How abominable! How infamous!" Her voice rose in indignation. "And not satisfied with that, she stole from them as well!" Her anger dissipated. "Have the poor boys anything at all?"

"Yes," Bordon assured her. "Not much, but after everything, they have some six hundred pounds apiece."

Tavington shrugged. "Enough to educate them and buy their first commissions, if they choose the army as their profession. Indeed, if we get it invested immediately for them, we might be able to double it before they need it." He smiled at his wife. "It appears that our family is growing by leaps and bounds."

He was anxious about her feelings on the matter, once the first shock was over. He knew she loved her little brother, but he was asking her to take in the younger Rutledge boy as well, a boy whom they both knew was probably Tavington's own son with Selina. It was a hard thing to ask of Jane, but what else were they to do? The child had no one else in the world.

"And so you arrived in England without knowing about the living?" She clutched at the familiar in her confusion. "Has he told you about the vicarage? It is nearly ready! I must show you and Mrs. Bordon—"

"Later, Jane," Tavington reassured her. "I have told Bordon all about our plans. When he arrived, I thought he had made the quickest Atlantic passage in history!"

Both men laughed. Bordon, she noted, looked extremely pleased. And so he should. She then berated herself for her smug superiority. The captain had done her a very great service, at no doubt dreadful inconvenience to himself. She truly was in his debt, and was glad, _glad_ that she had worked to make the vicarage fit to live in. She would show it to Mrs. Bordon with pride and gratitude. What good people they were!

"May I see Mrs. Laurens' letter?" Jane asked. Bordon drew it out of his coat pocket and handed it to her gravely, along with a few others. "Excuse me," she pleaded, "I must look at it briefly. I will read the others later, but I must at least glance at Cousin Mary's now."

"Of course, my dear," Tavington said.

He took Bordon to the window overlooking the rear lawn, and showed him the view. He was very proud of his wife. Jane was shocked, but was being so kind about everything. Above all, she was not refusing to take in little Thomas. He could never be grateful enough to her.

Jane broke the letter's seal and saw Cousin Mary's familiar hand.

_October 7, 1781 _

_Charlestown _

_My dear Jane, _

_As Captain Bordon is carrying this letter to you, he must have already broken the news of your father's death to you. I am very sorry, dear Jane. You know I did not care for Ashbury, but such a sudden death—it is an awful reminder of the uncertainty of human existence. Cousin John Rutledge was so angry—he had been in correspondence with your father for some time, and then gained knowledge of some double-dealing on your father's part. The rebels have been dealing very harshly with those they think have betrayed them. I don't know what you have heard about the situation here—probably this is your first news—but things are very bad. The British do not hold much more than Charlestown itself. The rebels seized Cedar Hill and have auctioned it off to some relation of the Bulls. He is from Georgia, and nobody knows him. Your poor brothers are entirely disinherited. _

_The day after Ashbury's funeral, Selina called at my house. She came with her little boys and her aunt Alice Izard, and then said she was going to call on Ashbury's lawyer, and it was just too tiring to try to put them back in the carriage. With the shock and everything else considered, I did not like to object. She stepped into the carriage, dressed in elegant mourning, and that is the last I saw of her. Luckily, she had left Tom's wetnurse as well, who could care for the boys. I have no nursery, of course, but I cleared a spare room upstairs of everything valuable and put them there. Alice Izard and I sat waiting and waiting, wondering if she had had an accident to delay her. Night fell, and she still had not returned._

_ Late the following day, I was informed by your old butler that she came back to the house on Queen's Street, packed all her belongings, and drove away. She gave the British some excuse about a sick relation, and they let her through their lines. I have heard third hand that she sought the protection of her rebel Pinckney uncles. She took all the valuables she could find in the house--and her jewelry, of course. On the pretense of needing to pay for the funeral, she was able to put her hands on much of his money, some twelve thousand altogether, I believe. My latest intelligence states that she is engaged to be married to a colonel of the Maryland Continentals. Nay, she may already be married to him. She has sent me no word, and has shown no sign of wishing to be reunited with her children. I have never greatly desired children myself, but if had had them, I would like to think that I would not leave them on a cousin's doorstep like unwanted puppies. I am ashamed of her, and ashamed to be related to her. _

_I did not know what to do. I am nearly sixty years old, Jane, and I just couldn't see becoming a mother at this stage of my life. It is not simply that I don't care for children, though I confess that the thought of those two boys near my figurines made me shudder. I cannot claim that I think the rebels would physically harm them. I do not think that for a minute. If nothing else, I think that Cousin John would take the boys in and provide for them out of charity. However, there are ways to make a child miserable that do not involved beatings or starvation. I thought about what it would be like for the boys if they were brought up by relations who filled their ears with what a traitor their father was, and that they were poor relations and a burden to the family. That cannot be good or healthy or decent. Also, if the boys remained, and the British departed, they would lose even the small amount of money that Colonel Balfour helped me realize from the property Ashbury possessed in Charlestown. _

_The house on Queen's Street has been sold. The price was not good, but it was what we could get, and some money was left after your father's debts were paid. The slaves had fled, aside from old Davus, whom I have taken into my own service. It would have been cruel to put him on the auction block after his years of faithful service. The wetnurse too, ran away, apparently fearing that she would be sent to New York with Captain Bordon and would never see her family again. _

_Please do not laugh at me, my dear. The matter was of such anxiety to me that I got down on my knees and prayed about it. It came to me that you were the properest person to care for your own brothers. After Selina, who has forfeited any rights in the matter, you are their closest relation. I had heard that Captain Bordon, feeling his wounds too severe to continue his military service, was leaving Charlestown for New York, to be reunited with his family, and then to return to England. I begged him to call on me and disclosed my great trouble to him. Like the true gentleman he is, he thought the matter over, and then agreed to act for me. Poor Alice Izard is staying with me, and likely permanently. I find her good company, and very useful about the house. I pray that the boys arrive alive and safe. _

_Please write to me, dear Jane, as soon as you see them. I feel like I can never sleep soundly in my bed until I know they are in your good care. What a terrible world to find oneself in, at my time of life! You are younger and stronger, and must have the resilience to bend with the changing winds of fortune._

_ I am, most sincerely, you loving cousin, _

_Mary Laurens _

Tears stung Jane's eyes: tears of pity for her cousin, and for those little boys, deserted by the woman who should have cared for them the most. It was inconceivable to her that any woman could be such an unnatural mother. She would never have deserted William Francis—not for anything!

"What a sad letter," she commented to the two men waiting quietly by the window. "I shall write to her tomorrow to assure her of the boys' safety. It is clear that it has weighed greatly upon her. She speaks so gratefully, Captain, of your kindness to her."

Bordon shook his head briskly. "There was nothing else to be done. The boys are here, with the remains of their fortunes, and quite safe. My dear Harriet grew quite fond of them."

"Well," Tavington smiled. "She shall not be forever separated from them. We shall all be visiting often enough. Your own vicarage, as I've told you, is but a quarter-mile away."

"Yes!" Jane cried. "We must go there. I long to show it to you. It is such a charming place, and I sincerely wish that you shall be happy there."

"I cannot tell you," Bordon told them, "how much this situation means to my family. Without having to beg for favors, without the least trouble—I have already called on the Bishop of London, and will be ordained shortly after Christmas, on my return from Essex. I plan then to come back here and set to work. I have had a number of months to prepare myself. This living is far beyond anything I ever hoped."

Tavington shook his head. "I'd say that we have done well for each other. We could sit here paying compliments all day, but by that time, the tea will have gotten cold. Let's go join the others!"

A Christmas carol thundered forth from the drawing room. Tavington opened the library door and listened. Even with all the shocking news about her father, it was all Jane could do not to laugh. "I did not know that Sir John could sing."

_"--The Boar's head, as I understand, is the finest dish in all the land!--"_

"Well," Tavington grinned. "That's certainly John, but I'm not sure one can describe it as singing!"

Tea had been brought in. Lucy had done the honors, pouring cups and serving the sandwiches, some with cream cheese and some with sliced smoked pheasant. Hearty slices of a fruit cake enriched with nuts and chopped apricots satisfied even the men's appetites. Mrs. Bordon was at the harpsichord, accompanying Sir John's efforts with great good humor. The little girl was sitting with Lucy, and the tiny boy was running about the room, falling down at every corner. Bordon caught him as he flew by. Jane was impressed by how quick he was with his good right arm, considering that the left still seemed maimed.

"What is this?" he demanded, "a perpetual motion machine? Slow down, Master Robin Goodfellow!"

He held up the boy for Jane to see, and wiped cake crumbs from the small rosy mouth. "My son Robert. We call him Robin within the family." He nodded at the little red-haired girl watching Sir John admiringly, a nibbled sandwich in her hand. "That is my daughter Susan."

He set his son down, and the little boy immediately began running around the room again, albeit a little more cautiously. John finished his song, and the little girl immediately piped up in applause.

"Sing another, if you please, Sir John! You have such a nice loud voice!"

John saw Lucy and his brother laughing. With mock dignity, he bowed, and consulted with Mrs. Bordon about his next selection.

_"Wassail, wassail, all over the town— Our toast it is white and our ale it is brown—"_

He broke off, calling out, "Do you sing, Bordon? What about you, Protheroe? Will there can sing, but thinks it's unmilitary!"

Jane sat down, feeling a little wistful. It was Christmas, and Papa was dead. _I hardly know how to feel. _

The amiable guests had joined Sir John by the harpsichord. Bordon and Protheroe took up the tune manfully.

_"---In the Wassail bowl we'll drink unto thee!" _

At the end of the carol Susan Bordon declared, "That's the most beautiful song I ever heard. You're very good singers!"

"I can sing!" shouted Robin, wildly excited. "I make up my own songs!

In a high little voice he shrilled,

_"I'm the KING of England! _

_I'm the KING of England! _

_I'm the K---" _

Harriet rose from the harpsichord, laughing. "My goodness! Naptime for you, my lad! You're entirely too noisy!"

Susan asked anxiously, "'Tisn't naptime for me, is it, Mamma? I'm a great girl of four and Robin is a baby—"

"Of course you're a great girl, and good helper too, my darling," Harriet assured her. "I need you come with me and help Robin fall asleep. He will never calm down without you."

Susan trotted after her mother, proud to show all the important grown-ups how indispensable she was.

"Isn't that a nice little girl?" John asked Jane. "What a fine little friend for Fanny!"

Jane smiled, reminded of her brother-in-law's planned nuptials. She was curious about the widow who had fixed his affections: a woman over thirty—pretty, but without fortune, and with a little daughter to provide for. No doubt the lady blessed a kind Providence that she had caught the eye of a comparatively wealthy baronet. No—Jane corrected herself. John _was_ wealthy, or at least would be by this time next year if crop prices held and the house required no more major repairs. Jane thought it wonderfully kind of him to be so concerned with his prospective step-daughter, She was—what? Four years old. The little Bordon girl appeared to be about that age. Jane looked forward to having some time to get to know Mrs. Bordon better. She played very nicely.

Jane seated herself and played some quiet Christmas music, letting the others chat. She needed time to herself to come to terms with the news the day had brought her. The "Pastoral Symphony" from _The Messiah_ gave everyone a respite. Just before she finished, Harriet returned to the drawing room. Seated comfortably in the old-fashioned drawing room, a fire in the hearth crackling brightly, the guests seemed inclined to doze off.

The sky was steel grey, and it looked as if it might snow at any moment. Nevertheless, in Mrs. Bordon's place, Jane would be wild to see her new home.

"After you all have had enough tea, perhaps you might be inclined to walk to the vicarage," she suggested. "I am sure you would like to see it, if your shoes are stout enough."

The Bordon looked smilingly at one another. "That is most kind," Harriet answered, "if it is not too great an imposition."

"Edward and I shall stay here," Lucy said, "so you can show it without interruption. We shall sit by the fire quite happily, and gobble the last of the pheasant sandwiches. They are so good."

Thus, the walking party consisted of the Bordons, the Tavingtons, and Sir John himself. Jane carried the keys, and looked forward to handing them over to Harriet Bordon. With the talk about the voyage and the trip to London, everyone was quite well entertained for the short time the walk lasted. They came in sight of the rambling vicarage, now considerably less raffish than it had appeared two months before. Harriet clutched her husband's arm, and their steps quickened.

"It is a little bare of furniture," Jane warned. "The prior incumbent's heirs removed all his own pieces. There is certainly enough to begin upon, however."

"It is an interesting house," Bordon remarked. "From the mid-seventeenth century, I would guess."

"Yes," Tavington answered. "The vicarage is more recent that the Hall itself. We believe the central portion was erected in 1632, and then the rest after the Restoration—perhaps in 1666 through 1667. The annex gives the roofs a curious look, but it greatly increases the space inside."

"It is charming," Harriet declared, without hesitation.

They passed through the front garden, which was now at least innocent of weeds. Jane unlocked the door, and stood back to allow Harriet to enter first. The Bordons wandered through the rooms, touching this and that, and whispering together, evidently pleased with what they found. Bordon smiled as glanced in at the study, with its empty bookcases waiting patiently for a new gentleman-scholar to fill them. Harriet agreed with Jane about the pretty shape of the drawing room.

"And the lovely windows! It wants only an instrument," she said, "to make it quite perfect. And perhaps a sofa—there. How comfortable we shall be! Are the chimneys in good order?" she asked Jane.

"They were swept thoroughly only three weeks ago. You should have no difficulties."

They went upstairs. Harriet examined the bedrooms minutely, approving of much of the furniture, considering which room should serve for her husband and herself, and which for a nursery. The others could be guest rooms, and would be refurbished some time in the future. Up another flight were the attics, with accommodations for the servants. Some of the bedsteads wobbled and squeaked at the slightest touch.

"We must engage extremely slender maids, Harriet," Bordon laughed.

Jane could see Harriet examining the place as she would herself, making mental notes as to what needed repair or replacement, what must be done immediately, and what could wait. She studied Bordon's wife surreptitiously. She did not think her very beautiful, but there was a pleasant liveliness about her that appealed. And then her eyes sparkled so: they were dark and large, with straight black brows. They were her best feature, and drew one's attention instantly. Her accent sounded strange in Jane's ears, but, after all, Jane's probably sounded equally strange to a New Yorker. Altogether she was feeling very happy to make this woman's acquaintance. She was even more respectful when Harriet asked to look at the kitchens and see the extent of the kitchen garden.

From the vicarage to the church was but a few steps, and they went over there to see the empty building. In his short time in London, Tavington had already given his friend a brief history of the church and its parish. Bordon looked about, was pleased with the style of the place, was glad that all of its most ancient features had not been 'improved' past recognition, and in half an hour, had formed an outline of the plan that would be executed over the next few years to the church's great advantage.

"Then you approve?" asked Sir John, who was thinking that Fortune had certainly smiled on him to throw this couple in his way. Bordon was a damned fine card player, and would be someone with whom he could hunt and shoot. Mrs. Bordon would be so kind to Emily. Nothing could be better.

"Very much—a fine place," the Bordons agreed, looking very content themselves.

By the time they left the church, large fluffy flakes of snow were floating down upon them, dotting their cloaks with miniature lace. Jane pulled her hood up over her hair, and trudged along silently, thinking about the meals that she would need to order for the next few days. William had said they would be staying only three nights—Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and then Boxing Day. They would then return to London, presumably to see to the ordination. Perhaps Mrs. Bordon would like to go a-shopping for her new home. Had Jane been in her place, however, she would have wanted to stay at Wargrave and work on the vicarage. Perhaps, if Mrs. Bordon were offered that option…

Harriet, at first, was unwilling to be separated from her husband, but Bordon thinking it over, thanked Jane.

"My dear, the ordination will be on Epiphany. Why don't you accept Mrs. Tavington's kind offer, instead of dragging the children back to town?"

"I really want to see you ordained, my darling," Harriet whispered, so low that Jane could barely overhear her.

"And I want you to be there. Here is a compromise: Come join me on Saturday the fifth. The ordination is on Sunday, and we will return to Essex the following day. Can you be separated from the children for two nights?"

"If I must, I must. We must ask Mrs. Tavington how she feels about _that,_ however!"

Jane was close enough that she felt she could put in a word of reassurance at that point. She would be delighted to care for the little Bordons. They had their own nursemaid, and by the fifth they should be comfortable enough at Wargrave to bear their mother's brief absence. Hearing the discussions, Sir John and Tavington both weighed in on the advantages of Mrs. Bordon staying to keep Mrs. Tavington company, and of letting her children rest from their travels.

"Very well," agreed Harriet, smiling at them all. "You make me feel so welcome it would be ungrateful indeed to refuse you. Don't be surprised, Robert, if I present you with a _very_ long shopping list on your departure!"

John fell into step with Tavington, talking about estate business. "Porter promised to pay me the rest of his debt by the end of the quarter, but he sent me a note asking me to wait until the sixth. Says he'll pay everything he owes me then."

"You're too soft on him, John," Tavington growled. "Here, Jane—what do you think of this waiting game Porter is playing?"

"I can ask when I visit Mrs. Porter on Boxing Day with the children's presents. I believe Mr. Porter was waiting to hear from some friend in Bristol to whom he had entrusted a part of the money."

She shrugged. Porter was distant and nervous with her, but so he had always been. She much preferred the mild Mrs. Porter, but it was impossible to strike up a real friendship with her, what with the bad feeling and suspicion between the Tavingtons and their erring steward. She put the matter from her mind, for she was becoming concerned about all their children, and Moll dealing with a crowd of unknown little ones. Ned Protheroe and the little Bordons had mothers and familiar nursemaids to look after them, but Ash and Tom had come on fortune's alms and had nobody—or at least, only leftovers from other children.

"I really must see how Mrs. Royston is faring. I ought to look in at Ash, and Thomas, too, of course."

"Your upstairs nursery is delightful," Harriet told her. "Here you were preparing it for your own child, and now it will hardly be pristine after the incursions of our family."

"We are so happy to have you as guests—both you and your children. How exhausting it must have been with four!"

"We had plenty of assistance most of the time," Harriet assured her. "Ashbury is a dear little boy, though very curious. It was Thomas I was most concerned for. He has had so much upheaval, and is still suckling. I suspect," she whispered to Jane, "that some of the milk he ingested might have been laced with spirits from time to time. Hired wet nurses vary so greatly in quality and character. The crossing, too, was very rough, and the children were sick a great deal."

"Poor little creatures," sighed Jane. "Children love regularity, and they have had little enough of it. I hope their time at Wargrave is comforting."

Once back at the house, the men returned to the drawing room, and Jane and Harriet went upstairs, chatting amicably about the vicarage. As they reached the first floor, screams echoed down the hall. The two women lifted their skirts slightly, skimming the floor, as they instinctively hurried to the sounds. Moll was cuddling Little Ash, trying to calm him.

"He was fine until he heard your voice, ma'am. That set him off."

The little boy's face was red with crying. "Mamma!" he howled. "Mamma!" He saw Harriet behind Jane, and reached out desperately for her, kicking at Moll to escape. "Mamma!"

"Oh, my!" said the compassionate Harriet, taking him from Moll, who now had a more softly sobbing baby Thomas to comfort. William Francis was crying himself, frightened by all the noise, and Rose had him in her arms. Jane stared in confusion, and Harriet told her, "He has gotten into the trick of calling me that in the past month. I did not wish to argue with him, for it took him long enough to accept me. There, there, my boy!" she soothed the wailing child. To Jane, she said, "I shall never forget how thunderstruck I was when Robert arrived with them. Thomas was quiet enough until he was hungry, but I sat down Ashbury with my own Robin for some porridge, and I shall never forget how sad he looked. Different food—different bowls, even, I suppose. I don't know how Robert dealt with it. I've often wondered if that nurse who ran away drugged the boys. Anyway, Ashbury has become fond of me and the children, and fond of Betty, our nursemaid." She gave Ash another cuddle, and murmured, "Why don't you go to your sister Jane?" She moved to offer the boy to Jane, but he turned away his head and clung fearfully to Harriet.

"Perhaps not at the moment," sighed Jane. "It is all very new." Ashbury was very unhappy indeed, and caught at Harriet, trying to whisper in her ear.

Jane heard, "Wobbin? Wobbin gone?"

"No, Ashbury," Harriet reassured him, "Robin is upstairs taking his nap like a good boy. You should lie down, too."

"Want Wobbin. I s'eep with him."

"Maybe that what he needs to feel safe here, ma'am, right now," Moll told Jane.

"I suppose," Jane said, feeling a little disappointed, and then scolding herself for it. Of course Ash did not remember her, and all this was strange. Naturally he wanted to be with his little friend and with the women who had cared for him for the past few months. She smiled, to show she was not jealous. "We will have plenty of time to become reacquainted." She ruffled the blonde head gently, and the boy, at least, did not push her away, now that he was safe in Harriet's arms.

He was carried away, much calmer, and Jane was left to deal with her son and only one new little "brother." No, Jane rejected that qualification. _Thomas Rutledge _is_ my brother. That is how the world will know him. Only Selina could say otherwise, and she would certainly…No. He is Thomas Rutledge, and I must treat him no differently than I treat my dear Little Ash. _

William Francis wanted her, and Jane took him from Rose, sitting down to suckle him. Nursing always calmed him, and she put him to the breast, needing to be a little calmer himself. Moll sat down , playing quietly with little Thomas. Rose tidied the room, and gathered Ash's things to take upstairs to the other nursery. While Jane nursed her own child, she took some time to study the other little boy, who was only three months older than her own, but very different. She had not paid much attention to little Tom, and decided that must change immediately. He looked curiously sad, but was letting Moll hold him without complaint. Jane thought he was thinner than a baby not yet a year old ought to be, but no doubt the stress of travel and change of milk had not helped. _He's had a hard life since my father died,_ Jane thought, pitying the forsaken little boy. He was a long baby, with huge blue eyes and a cap of thick dark hair. _A sweet-looking little boy,_ Jane admitted to herself. _He'll probably be a very handsome man someday. _

He was looking over at her, very wistfully. A tear trickled down his pale little face, and Moll wiped it away, cooing to him affectionately.

"Reckon he's hungry, too, poor little mite. We'd best start looking for a nurse for him. That nursery girl of the Bordons says he'll drink from a cup, but all we've got is cow's milk, and it might not agree with him. Guess I could send down for some more porridge. Looks like he could use some feeding up!"

Terribly sorry for the baby, Jane muttered, "I'm probably going to regret this…" More loudly she said, "Oh, Moll, bring him over here. If you help me, perhaps I can get him situated on my lap. I have another breast, after all. He looks so miserable."

With some careful rearranging, and some pillows for support, they managed to get young Thomas Rutledge to her right breast. She nearly jumped, feeling how desperately he fastened onto her, sucking hungrily. William Francis had only needed a snack. Baby Tom needed a few lost meals.

"He'll suck you dry, if you don't watch out," Moll sagely observed. As soon as Rose returned, Moll said, "Go down to the kitchen, Rose, and get Mrs. Tavington a tall glass of small beer. She needs lots to drink if she's going to feed two babies!"

"Small beer?" laughed Jane. She _was_ rather thirsty.

"Well, you can't drink plain water," Moll pointed out. "'Tain't safe. You could have more tea, I suppose, but there's no strength in it. Small beer's safe and made from barley. You try it and see."

"I don't want to get the babies drunk!"

"Pshaw! You'd have to drink a keg of the stuff. 'Tain't ale or stout or anything with a kick to it. Just small beer."

"I'll try it, just once."

William Francis was finished, and Moll picked him up, patting his back until he burped contentedly, and put him down to finish his interrupted nap. Baby Tom was not anything like satisfied, and Jane hoped he was getting enough.

"Well, Moll. It looks like our family just got much larger. I hope you don't have second thoughts now that we'll end up with three little boys in the nursery at once!"

"Mighty partial to the little critters," Moll said. "Don't you worry about the oldest—you just spend a little time with him each day, and he'll get to know you again. How long is Captain Bordon staying?"

"He's leaving the morning after Boxing Day with the Protheroes, but Mrs. Bordon will stay until the fifth of January. She'll go to London to see him ordained, and then the two of them will return on Monday the seventh, and take up residence in the vicarage. Surely by then Ash will be more resigned to living with us."

They talked it over at length, discussing possible arrangements, and what would need to be done if they went back to London for a time. Moll was still thinking over the children's diet.

"Little Tom's a bit older than our Will. When Rose comes back, I'll tell her to have Mrs. Jeffreys mash up some soft-cooked turnips or carrot. He's old enough to eat that. Maybe even some ham or chicken, if it's minced up fine. They were all too stirred up and worn out when they first arrived to eat their porridge. Ashbury, now—he can eat what the older ones eat, but this one can't. He can manage more than plain rice porridge though, and the more the better. We'll need another high chair. When one gets fed t'other's likely to get hungry watching. I don't rightly like the look of those thin little limbs."

"I don't either. He'll be better soon, I hope. My stepmother," she confided to Moll, "deserted them. Abandoned them! She took what money she could—the rebels confiscated the land."

"Ran off?" Moll asked, confused. She had not been able to get a straight story from Betty, the Bordon's nursemaid, with all the bustle of their arrival. "What about your Pa?"

Jane stopped, staring at her, and then remembered. "My father—is dead, Moll. He died in September, perhaps when we were still at sea, or just after we arrived. He's been dead all that time, and I did not know."

She did not think she was about to shed tears, but her eyes burned. In a lower voice she said, "We parted so badly. And now we shall never make amends to one another."

"I'm right sorry, ma'am. I reckon all you can do is look after your little brothers the best you can."

"Oh, I will!" Another thought struck her. "Pullen! I must tell her to get out that mourning dress she made for me. I shall wear that. I must show my father some respect."

"Good idea, ma'am," Moll said soothingly. She put Will down in his little baby cot, and smoothed his blanket. "There's one taken care of," she muttered. She sat down by Jane, watching little Thomas Rutledge.

"He's a fine looking baby. Handsome. 'Tis a good deed to take him in."

The baby's suckling had slowed to a drowsy rhythm. The blue eyes were closed, and he appeared replete at last. Jane gently detached him from her breast and gave him to Moll. She tugged at the bodice of her gown, and then saw her husband standing in the shadows just inside the door.

"Shh!" she cautioned, finger to her lips. "We have just now got him quiet."

She looked at him again. William's eyes were on her, the blue of them intense and piercing, and he was looking at her with such emotion that she wondered briefly if he was angry with her. Apparently not. He strode over quietly, and dropped to his knees before her, taking her by the hand. He kissed it passionately, and pressed it to his cheek.

"My dear Jane," he croaked. If he had been another man, Jane would have thought him near tears. _Surely not--_

Tactfully, Moll turned her back to them, and sorted through the small box that held all of little Thomas Rutledge's worldly possessions.

"My dear Jane," Tavington repeated, painfully moved by an act of what seemed to him superhuman generosity. "No one but you—my dear Jane—thank God I married you!"

* * *

**Notes:** Christmas in 18th century England was very different from the holiday we know now. Not a lot of gift giving, really—that was not the point of the holiday. Children were sometimes given small gifts—and not always at Christmas. Sometimes gifts were given on New Year's day. Generally, depending on local custom, Christmas was a day to go to church, Boxing Day for remembering one's employees and servants, New Year's Day for parties, and Twelfth Night for the biggest parties of all-including customs such as naming the Lord of Misrule. Christmas Trees were just beginning their trek over from Germany. The Kissing Bough was an older English tradition, dating back to the Celts, and its descendant today is the kiss under the mistletoe. Once Sir John gets more settled in his role at Wargrave (beyond the scope of this story), expect much more holiday cheer: A ball either just before Christmas, or on New Year's Eve, or Twelfth Night; a traveling Punch and Judy puppet show to entertain his dear little stepdaughter and her friends; charades in costume; and visits from village mummers (complete with a visit from--"In comes I, Old Father Christmas! Be I welcome or be I not - I hope that Old Christmas will never be forgot!") 

I was originally thinking of wrapping up the story within a few chapters, but it seems to me I have a great deal more material to explore: Jane's return to London, Tavington's memoirs and portrait, John's marriage, Letty's presentatiion at court and her relations with her new in-laws, political storms and possible duels. The fighting may be over, but the war isn't. Let me know what you think. I consider reviews when constructing my chapters!

**Next—Chapter 49: A Christmas in Bath **


	49. A Christmas in Bath

**Chapter 49: A Christmas in Bath **

_"Ma foi, comme elle est belle, Madame la Vicomtesse!" _Véronique exclaimed to her sister Julie, as she stepped back to examining her handiwork.

French maids were an education in themselves, Letty decided. She did not yet know much French—not like her sister, who could read it and write it and speak it--but Letty could understand quite a bit now. Véronique and Julie Maupin chattered to each other all day, and _"belle"_ was a word that figured large in their speech. Letty was learning all sorts of lovely words_—"belle," "jolie," "magnifique," "glorieuse," "charmante," "delicieuse," "exquise." _

They were generally applied to her, but her maids admired other ladies from time to time, and that gave Letty a better idea of what the words really meant. At the moment, _"belle" _seemed appropriate enough.

She was going to a masked ball tonight given by the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire. Everyone was to wear white and gold. Letty's costume was very striking, with a kind of Grecian cloak sweeping back from her shoulders, and with a spray of white rosebuds dipped in gold in her hair. Lord Fanshawe wanted her to wear some family jewels for the occasion: an amazing necklace of diamond studs, and brilliant pendule earrings to match. It was all rather weighty. A study of her appearance in the looking-glass revealed something that looked less like a person than something made by a goldsmith. No doubt his lordship's dress for the occasion would match hers for style and expense.

She had had some wonderful times here in Bath, but she was feeling ready to leave. She missed her sister more each day. She thought longingly of the darling little sitting room in London, and how she would share secrets with Jane there. She was not certain, but soon she might be able to confirm some exciting news, and she hoped her sister would be happy for her.

She was looking forward to meeting the Duchess of Devonshire, a leading light among women of fashion. Other ladies told her that the Duchess (who was actually a few years younger than herself, though no one knew that but Jane), was not a great beauty, but a comely and charming woman: a maker of modes, an arbiter of taste. Letty had overheard enough to know that the Dukes of Devonshire was a leader among the Whigs and that the Duchess was a fierce advocate of their cause. No doubt the Tavingtons would be unimpressed with the company she was keeping. Her husband, indifferent to politics, did not care if an acquaintance was Whig or Tory, provided they showed breeding and taste.

The Duchess, at least, met his standards. Speaking privately to her, he told her that Her Grace was indeed a pleasant woman who knew how to dress, but that the Duke was almost an idiot. "He would be nothing without his title and fortune: too indolent to make his way as a soldier; too vicious for the clergy, too silent for the law. Stay: I am unjust. He does, in fact, have an estimable knowledge of the classics. Perhaps he would have made a don at one of our universities. Otherwise, he's useless."

They were great gamesters, he warned her. "The duchess thinks nothing of losing thousands in a night. If you play faro with her, be on your guard. Also, if you win, be prepared to wait indefinitely for payment."

"I suppose that's what makes her so easy about losing," Letty observed.

Fanshawe laughed, very amused. Letty confessed, "Cards are all right, but not my favorite amusement. My sister doesn't care for them at all. I was poor too long to want to throw money away recklessly. I don't mind playing whist, but I don't think I'd like losing a lot of money."

"Then don't. Set a certain amount you feel comfortable losing—two or three hundred pounds—and stop if you reach that point."

"Two or three hundred pounds! I'd rather spend it on anything else—jewels or telescopes or music boxes. Or pineapples," she smiled, remembering her first introduction to that fruit. "I love eating new foods."

"We really must go to Paris, my lady, when this wretched war is over. And Italy!"

"Yes!" she turned toward him eagerly. "How I would love to go! Signor Bellini told me about Florence. I want to go there and see the Pitti Palace and the Gates of Paradise."

"Soon, I hope, Madam. But for now, we must make do with London. There will be so much to entertain us there, and new people to meet… By the by, I hope you will not object to making the acquaintance of a ward of my mine, Miss James—Miss Harmonia James. She is in school in London, and with a Lady Fanshawe at home, it would be possible to give the poor child an outing—a dinner, a concert now and then—whatever you find agreeable."

"A ward? Hasn't she any family?"

"She has no one but me," Lord Fanshawe declared gravely.

"The poor little girl! How old is she?"

"She will be, I believe, sixteen in March. Not yet old enough for society, but old enough to desire something beyond the schoolroom. She is a beautiful child, and has manners of particular refinement—I insisted on that, when seeking out a preceptress for her."

"What a shame she must be at school for Christmas! We must invite her very soon. You said we would leave after Twelfth Night."

"—And by the fifteenth we should arrive in London. I am gratified by your generous sentiments. Perhaps, when Miss James is older, you might find her acceptable as a companion. Otherwise, I fear, she is doomed to be sent out amongst strangers—"

"How sad. I hope I shall like her very much!" Fanshawe bowed his satisfaction, consulted his watch, and saw that it was time to leave. Her cloak was white satin, trimmed in ermine. One of the infinite number of handsome footmen lifted her into the carriage, to prevent any possibility of her costly garments touching the ground. It was only a few minutes before he lifted her out again, and Letty entered into a world of light.

Altogether, the color scheme made a tremendous impact. Hundreds of candles shone gold on gold, and the satin and jewels reflected the illumination into every corner of the rooms. Letty heard her husband and herself announced, and shortly thereafter she was greeted by the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire.

"So chawmin'. Isn't she, Your Gwace?"

"Chawmin.' Chawmed to meet oo, milady."

Letty was unable to make any sense of what the Devonshires were saying to her. To be sure, the Duke said almost nothing—though he eyed her up and down. Letty thought the Duchess rather pretty—and with the professional eye of a former lady's maid, she assessed the woman before her as one who knew how to choose clothes, and how to wear them. She smiled and curtseyed, and was happy to escape.

She whispered to Fanshawe. "I can't understand a word they say. Is there something wrong with them?"

Fanshawe chuckled discreetly, "Merely the 'Devonshire House Drawl," Madam. A ridiculous affectation of their set. They and their intimates never speak any other way, feeling that the violence they do our mother tongue sets them apart from the common herd."

"It sounds like—baby talk!"

"Here," he said, trying to keep his debonair countenance, "let us find our friends the Carterets! They, at least, do not indulge in 'baby-talk!"

Letty liked young Lady Carteret, and spent a long night in her company admiring wonderful clothes, dancing, listening to splendid music, and eating a remarkably lavish supper. It was not much like any Christmas Eve she had ever known. After midnight, she found herself getting tired, and began to wonder what Mama would have made of it all.

"You are growing weary of amusements, Lady Fanshawe?" asked Maria Basingstoke, Lady Carteret, setting her own mask aside. "I am a little, myself. Perhaps it is only my condition, however." Lady Carteret was five months gone with child, and feeling rather bloated.

"I was just thinking about how I spent Christmas a year ago. I was in South Carolina last year, in the middle of a war. It was very different from this!"

"My poor friend! At least now it seems that the horrid war is ending. Do you miss the Colonies?"

"Not at all! That is, I knew some fine people—but," she gave a quick smile, "I love my life here in England."

"You do not miss your family?"

"My mother is dead, and my father—certainly does not miss me. He was never kind either to me or my sister."

"Ah yes! I long to meet the formidable Mrs. Tavington! She sounds like such an Amazon!"

"She's really not like that at all—only when someone threatens her. She's really very gentle and accomplished. She is the one I miss right now."

"Well, I hope you shall meet again soon. I hear you make for London after the holidays?"

"Yes—after a few more days at Salton Park. Do you go to town soon?"

"We shall be there around the tenth, I think. Harry is anxious to hear the latest news. Do let's meet as soon as we are both in town. I shall have a dinner, and invite you and your sister and brother. I hope I can persuade you to sing."

"I shall sing for you with pleasure, as soon as I have learned something new."

Her friend patted her hand. "Delightful creature! It shall be such an evening! And I cannot delay. Too soon I shall be confined, and how dull _that_ will be!"

"Lord Fanshawe wants to present his ward to me—a Miss James. The poor girl is at school, which sounds so sad this time of year."

"Stay—Miss James? Is not James his lordship's Christian name?"

"Yes, it is."

"My dear—" the young woman hesitated. Letty had gravitated to her because she was pretty and pleasant-spoken, and they were both young wives of older peers, and she seemed to have no ulterior motive in courting Letty's friendship. She was an agreeable companion, and she also knew much more than Letty about life in England, and from time to time had made some useful observations. Letty waited, curious about what Lady Carteret had to say. "My dear," the young woman continued, "I may be in error, knowing nothing of the girl. However, I think I ought to tell you that natural children often take their surname from the Christian name of their father."

Letty thought this over. It was not particularly shocking. "You are saying that this girl might be Lord Fanshawe's daughter."

"I merely suggest that you have a good look at her when you meet. If she is a young lady of good manners and education, there is no harm in noticing her. She might be useful when you travel. It is very fatiguing sometimes having no other lady with whom to converse."

"That is certainly true," Letty sighed.

"Perhaps she will be good company. I wish Harry had a ward. Will I see you at church tomorrow for the Christmas service?"

"Yes—I love the Octagon Chapel. I do not plan to stay until the end tonight. My costume is so heavy."

"Heigh-ho! Mine, too. I feel like the Duchess in the old play--smothered in cassia and shot to death with pearls!"

In fact, Fanshawe was ready to leave a little after two, and Letty was glad of it. Her head was echoing with all the noise of the evening, but she remembered to ask, "My lord, what is the play in which a Duchess is shot to death with pearls?"

He was puzzled for a moment, and then his face cleared. "I believe you are speaking of _The Duchess of Malfi._ The beautiful young Duchess is not actually killed in that way. When about to be strangled by assassins hired by her greedy relatives, she points out that whether the murder weapon is crude or costly, she will be equally dead in the end. It is a play"-- he smiled briefly--"that you would not like _at all!" _

Letty shuddered. "No. I would not want to see a woman murdered. What kind of person could find entertainment in that?"

He made no demands of her that night, seeing that she was tired. He looked rather fatigued himself. She told him she would be attending Christmas services the following day, and he smiled indulgently. It was quite useless to ask him to accompany her. Letty suspected that he was an utter infidel.

While he did not rise until she was already returned from church, preparations were already afoot from the earliest hours for a Christmas dinner they were hosting for a few friends. The servants left little for Letty to do: the food was exquisite, the card room arranged elegantly with unbroken packs and new candles. Letty had yet another new gown: one of golden taffeta trimmed in foamy lace. Her Christmas present, a large pear-shaped pearl on a golden chain, hung about her neck, and gleamed between her breasts.

"Is it true that it was once part of the Spanish Crown jewels?" one guest asked, staring rather fixedly at the bosom on which said jewel was displayed. Letty really did not know, but Fanshawe answered for her breezily.

"Indeed it was, sir. The Virgin's Tear once belonged to Isabella of Castile, and passed eventually to the Medicis, and then from hand to hand—or throat to throat—until it appeared in a box before Lady Fanshawe today."

"And I am sure it has never appeared to greater advantage than tonight," declared another gentleman.

Letty thanked them sweetly. She did like the pearl, but she already had so much jewelry. She was more excited by the new telescope that was being set up at Salton. These parties were very nice, but she was growing tired of being shown off constantly.

The evening was not bad, really. She played whist with some pleasant people, she won a little money, and she gossiped with Lady Carteret. She sang, accompanied by the same lady, and enjoyed the applause very much. She looked forward to Friday, when they were to go to the theatre to see _The Rivals,_ which Lord Fanshawe had assured her she would enjoy.

The guests departed a little after midnight. At his lordship's command, she went up to her bedchamber to find a pair of white feathered wings lying on her bed, along with an exquisite jeweler's box. Inside was a hair ornament—a delicate wreath of pearls and tiny diamonds. Letty could not imagine its value. A note in her husband's hand commanded her to wear the items provided, her new pearl drop, "and nothing else."

Véronique, trained to never say anything or show surprise, helped Letty out of her splendid apparel, and then took apart her elaborate hairdressing. She set the pearl wreath on Letty's long black hair. The wings were some theatrical prop, and were supported by thin flesh-colored ribbons over her shoulders. Letty put them on, and Véronique secured them in the back with hooks and eyes. It was done. The maid curtseyed, and glided out of the room in silence.

Letty studied herself in the mirror. It was all very pretty in a strange sort of way. She did not think she looked anything like an angel ought to look. An angel, as she understood from pictures she had seen, should not have long black hair, and certainly should not have a triangle of black hair drawing attention to _that_ particular spot. An angel should not have full breasts with nipples of such a dark rosy brown. And angel's face should not be—surely—so white and red with cosmetics. Really, it was not quite right. Letty could not think what to call her appearance, but had she asked her sister, Jane would have suggested the word "perverse."

But his lordship found it delightfully stimulating. He entered, in an elegant dressing gown, and admired Letty from every side.

"Yes, Madam, turn a little to the—left. Put your hand—there. Perfection! What a pity we cannot have Sir Joshua paint you thus!"

He smiled and settled into a wing-backed chair and beckoned to her. Letty obediently approached and dropped to her knees. Lord Fanshawe watched the play of candlelight in her wreath with the eye of an artist. "A Happy Christmas indeed."

------

Each day had its pleasures, but the endless pleasures made them all alike. Two days after Christmas saw Letty once again standing on a dais, being fitted into a new gown.

"Lift your chin, Madame," Julie instructed her mistress, trying to achieve an interesting shape to the shoulders.

Letty sighed. "I'm feeling," she muttered, "Just a _little_ tired of changing clothes every few hours."

"Madame?"

"Nothing." She put her hand on her stomach. "Wait. I need to sit down."

"But, Madame, I must pin—"

"I need to sit down—_now!"_

"Madame!"

Letty pressed her other hand over her mouth, and ran frantically for a basin, trailing satin ribbons and pale blue moiré. Her stomach heaved violently, and she spewed out her morning's breakfast of brioche and marmalade and hot chocolate. The sick tasted so vile that she choked and heaved again, while her maids fluttered anxiously. Véronique put a gentle arm about her shoulders, and Julie dampened a handkerchief to wipe her mouth.

"Oh," Letty moaned, as the floor and walls rippled before her eyes in a sickening way. "Please, get me out of this gown. The pins are pricking me. Please! I want to lie down!"

The bits of unfinished gown were unpinned, and Letty raced to her blessedly soft day bed, hardly giving the Maupin sisters time to untie her petticoat. Letty closed her eyes, shutting out the whirling ceiling, and whimpered. "My corset is hurting me. Unfasten it! Unfasten everything!" The corset was unlaced, the curtains were drawn, and lavender water was applied to her forehead.

"This is horrible," Letty whimpered. "I'm never ill."

Véronique exchanged a knowing look with her sister. "Madame is _enceinte,"_ she said calmly. "_Plein comme un oeuf. _We noticed that you had swelled a little—here," she added, carefully prodding Letty's breasts.

"Yes, I know I'm with child. I'm sure his lordship has noticed. I thought I would not get sick, though. I'm never sick, except that awful time on the ship."

"Will Madame not be going out this afternoon?"

"Oh, I hope not. Véronique, tell his lordship that I am very unwell, and must rest."

Another look between this sisters: this one more uneasy. Véronique took a deep breath, "Oui, Madame. I shall go, and I shall return _immediatement." _

Fanshawe had been out with friends, but was given the message on his return. Shortly thereafter, he was knocking softly at the door, and slipped inside, studying Letty with resigned compassion.

"I am most sorry to hear that you are unwell, my lady," he told her gravely. "I had hoped you would not suffer the more disagreeable aspects of child-bearing. Do you require the attendance of a physician?"

Fright made her cry out in protest. "Oh, no! No doctors!" Seeing her husband's eyebrows raise in disapproval, she apologized. "I beg your pardon, my lord. I did not mean to shout. I do not need a doctor. My maids are looking after me. I'm sure I shall be better later. I shall have some tea and dry toast and that will help a great deal, surely."

Fanshawe studied her with some concern. Of course, it would quite amusing to spread this piece of news. Not every seventy-year-old man could get a beautiful young wife with child. He stood a little straighter, feeling quite pleased with himself. A pity the lady was unwell, but that was not unusual. All that money could do would be done to assure her comfort.

"If the thought of a physician displeases you, perhaps an experienced mid-wife should be engaged to attend you. Or one of the fashionable man-midwives?"

"A mid-wife would be welcome, if she were nice," Letty agreed. "A woman, not a man. A nice older woman would see to everything, I'm sure."

She could not have the one person she really wanted, but she knew she did not want a strange man touching her, telling her how she ought to feel according to some book he had read.

Fanshawe considered the matter. "I shall see to it. Perhaps, my lady, you will grace the table at dinner?"

"I shall try, my lord. I shall do my best to feel better."

"I ask no more than that." He bowed, and left her.

Julie brought her a cup of tea, but halted, bewildered, when Letty burst into tears.

"What is it, Madame?" she asked softly, unsure what to do.

"I want Mama!" Letty cried helplessly. "I want my mother! It's so unfair that she can't be here!"

A torrent of tears followed. Letty had never been so miserable, or felt so alone. It would be weeks before she could hope to see Jane, and even Jane was no substitute for Mama. Jane had had Mama all through her pregnancy, and Mama's last act in life was to deliver Jane's baby. If they hadn't gone chasing after Colonel Tavington, Mama might still be alive.

But if they hadn't, Colonel Tavington would be dead, and they would still be slaves. Letty tried to make everything come out right in her imagination, but every train of thought ran up against the stone walls of reality. She was married, and a rich noblewoman, and going to have a baby. She could not have those things—and they were good things--and still have Mama. She could not have Mama and still be free. The thoughts circled around inside her, a dog chasing its tail. She glanced at the folded remains of the blue moiré. The watered patterns in the cloth made her queasy. She shut her eyes again, exhausted, and knew there were some things that couldn't be made to make sense. She wanted Mama, and no one else would do.

That first bout of morning sickness was the worst. Letty paced herself carefully, staying in bed later, eating less for breakfast. A Nurse Gloake was hired, a well-known midwife and sick nurse. She came every day to see to Letty, full of old-fashioned remedies and good sense. Letty did not think she was as wise as Mama, but she was not full of useless philosophy, and she never talked about bleeding or purging or starving her.

Lady Carteret was with child, too, and her doctor had as of the day after Christmas prescribed a "low diet," which was plain oatmeal porridge and tea and toast, and no meat or fruit and not much in the way of vegetables, other than stewed turnips. "I'd do anything for a mutton chop or a piece of cake or an apple," she confided to Letty in their box at the theatre, "but Dr. Malahyde says no, and my husband trusts him implicitly. I am so tired all the time. The doctor says my blood is choleric and that I must be bled regularly to balance my humours."

"My mother didn't hold with doctors and bleedings," Letty confided in her turn, feeling bold without the fear of men overhearing her. "My mother thought all doctors were quacks. She thought women who were with child should be eating like hard-working men. Men always think they're the only ones who need meat, but Mama thought that it takes a lot of different foods to make a healthy baby!"

"I wish she were here," sighed Lady Carteret. "Harry's mother, the Dowager, thinks Dr. Malahyde is a genius, and Harry won't hear a word against him."

Letty whispered, "Come have tea with me tomorrow. I'll have ham sandwiches and fruit cake, and I won't tell a soul!"

Lord Carteret turned to speak to his wife, and so Lady Carteret did nothing more than smile and squeeze her friend's hand.

-----

Letty spoke to the butler, and made clear that she wanted no gossip about what Lady Carteret ate or did not eat while she was a guest in their house. When they dined together, it made her sad to see Lady Carteret looking longingly at all the good food, while a basin of thin gruel was placed before her.

"My lord, can't you speak to Lord Carteret?" Letty pleaded one evening. It was Monday, New Year's Eve, and they were to go to a ball at the Upper Rooms. "It cannot be right for Lady Carteret never to have a good meal. I don't believe the doctor has a bit of sense!"

"It is none of our affair," Fanshawe told her repressively. "A man has the right to order his family life as he sees fit. Lady Carteret is right to obey her husband. I do not wish to hear more about this matter."

Letty subsided, glad she had not told Lord Fanshawe what she was giving her friend at tea time or slipping her when they rode in the carriage together. Poor Maria was growing thin and pale. Surely something so manifestly ridiculous could not be right. Only rich people who had always had all the food they wanted could imagine that it could be healthy to starve. No one who had been a slave was likely to make _that_ mistake, but it was useless to argue the matter. Lord Fanshawe did not tolerate disobedience: not from his servants, not from his family, and certainly not from Letty. He was kind and generous to her, but she now understood that there was a price to be paid. In exchange for her elevation to the nobility, her husband expected her to obey his will as if it were that of a god.

She sat musing over this, when the butler entered with a letter on a tray.

"Pardon me, my lord," he murmured to Fanshawe, "but her ladyship has an express."

"An express?" Letty stood, knees trembling, wondering what terrible news required the expense of quick delivery. Perhaps Lady Cecily had died! She was given the letter, and saw Jane's handwriting. At least her sister was safe! She excused herself to Lord Fanshawe and broke the seal.

She stood staring at the contents so long, that Fanshawe asked, "My lady? What news? Are you quite well?" He curtly dismissed the butler, and looked at Letty in concern. In answer, Letty read the letter aloud.

_"December 24, 1781 _

_Wargrave Hall _

_My dearest sister, _

_First of all, we are all well here, and Lady Cecily is no worse, but I asked Colonel Tavington to send this to you express, for I have news you ought to know at once. Another time I shall write of pleasant things, but I cannot put off the grave purpose of this letter. _

_My dearest, today the party from London arrived: my husband and his brother, the Protheroes and their little child. With them were Captain Bordon and his wife. They arrived in London only a few days ago, and sought out the Colonel directly, for they had not come alone. They brought our brothers, Ashbury and Thomas Rutledge. _

_Letty, my dear, our father is dead. He died of an apoplectic stroke on the twelfth of September. I shall not burden you with the details, but tell you simply that he played both sides in the war, and the rebels found it out and confiscated all his property that lay within their grasp. The shock killed him. Selina snatched up what she could of Papa's ready money and the valuables at the house in town, and fled to her rebel Pinckney relations, leaving the boys with Cousin Mary Laurens without a word of explanation. The slaves, other than poor old Davus, all ran away. Cousin Mary did not know what to do: she was afraid for the boys' future if they stayed in South Carolina, and so the lawyers sold the looted town house for what they could get quickly. Six hundred pounds apiece to the boys is all that remains of the great Rutledge rice fortune. _

_Captain Bordon took the boys with him—first to New York, to be reunited with his own wife and two young children. Then they journeyed with them to England, to their closest living relatives after their unnatural mother. You will be relieved to know that Cousin Mary is keeping Davus, so he has a roof over his head and is in no danger of being sold to strangers. _

_You cannot imagine my shock when Colonel Tavington lifted my dear Little Ash from the carriage. Both boys had a very hard journey. Ash did not remember me, and cried for Mrs. Bordon, whom he calls "Mamma." Thomas has never known me, and seems sad and underfed. They will need a great deal of loving care to recover. They are both such dear little boys. _

_Of course we must put on mourning. I am sorry for your disappointment, dearest sister, when you have just got such beautiful new garments, but so it must be. I had other plans myself, but there is no help for it. Full mourning it must be until early March, and then half-mourning for another six months. At least then the white and silver gown you described can be worn again! It is an eerie coincidence that when in Chelmsford, not long ago, I spied some black bombazine, and knowing that the end is near for Lady Cecily, I bought it and had Pullen make it up for me. She warned me that it was an unlucky thing to do, but I would not heed such superstitious croaking. I am still not superstitious, but the coincidence is odd. I shall have to order all sorts of new things—and all in black: new cloak, new traveling habit, new visiting dress, new hats—even new handkerchiefs! Mourning is certainly an expensive business. _

_The Colonel too, is resigned to wearing mourning for his father-in-law, though he told me that what he had ordered would be very handsome! He has a grey suit of clothes that he will wear for now, and of course when in uniform needs nothing more than a black armband. At least with our pearls we have acceptable mourning jewelry. _

_I thought long and hard about other signs of mourning. Some might criticize my behavior, but I have resolved that I will not be prevented from dancing or going to entertainments. I will wear proper mourning and that is enough. Of course, nothing is more vulgar than a woman in deep mourning behaving in a loud and boisterous way, but as neither of us behaves like that in any case, it does not apply. Certainly, I will not immure myself in the house, bowed under the weight of my grief. I do feel sad that Papa is gone, but I have always felt worse to realize that he had no affection for either of us. _

_After writing such a tale, I find I have not the heart to continue the letter. I shall write again soon, telling you of our Christmas here. I long to know of yours. _

_Your loving sister, _

_Jane"_

"How horrible," Letty breathed.

"Certainly rather inconvenient," Fanshawe observed, very annoyed. He rang for the butler, who entered immediately. "Say nothing of the arrival of this letter to anyone," he commanded the servant. "This letter arrived tomorrow. Do you understand?"

"Very good, sir."

"Then you may go." The door shut behind the butler.

Letty was still bewildered. "I don't understand, my lord. I fear I cannot go to the ball tonight."

"Of course you can. I desire to see you in your blue gown. It becomes you very well, and I hardly think the death of a tyrannical father thousands of miles away should prevent you. I cannot imagine what was in your sister's head to trouble an express rider with such a letter. It could hardly matter if it arrived by ordinary post in another week. She takes much upon herself, with her instructions and her prosings! Say nothing of the letter to anyone. We shall go and enjoy ourselves, and tomorrow we can see to ordering some very splendid mourning. I will not have my Christmas holidays spoiled by the death of someone so entirely unknown to me!"

"I don't want to --do wrong, my lord," Letty objected timidly.

"You cannot do wrong if you are obedient to me," Fanshawe replied, with breathtaking self-assurance. "Your duty to is to me, first of all. Tavington is quite right—mourning ought to be as handsome as possible. Anything less is poor-spirited. I thank the gods of fashion we need not wear black more than three months! Mrs. Tavington and her bombazine! I trust I shall never see _you_ in such stuff!" He paused, thinking of something else. "These brothers of yours. Does Mrs. Tavington imagine that _we_ should take them in?"

"I—don't know, my lord. My sister is very fond of Little Ash. I'm sure she will want to keep him by her. I have never even seen the other boy, for he was born after we left Charlestown for the back country."

"Very well. Do not make any such offer, Madam. I have already a sufficiency of loathsome little boys in my own family. A good present now would be appropriate, of course, and there is no harm in the occasional gift-giving, if it leads to nothing else. I certainly did not ask this Captain Bordon fellow to bring us indigent children from South Carolina! Now go and prepare yourself for the ball. Unquestionably, you shall be the fairest creature there."

There was nothing more to say. Letty bowed her head and went to change her clothing yet again.**  
**

* * *

**Note: **"Man-midwives" were all the fashion in the late 18th century, part of a trend to push women out of any role whatever in medicine. The fashionable term was "_accoucheur."_ George IV's daughter, Princess Charlotte, who might have otherwise inherited the throne of England, seems to have been killed in childbirth by her doctors' combination of frequent bleedings with a "low" diet. Bombazine, by the way, is a cloth blending silk and wool. It has no sheen to it, which is what made it appropriate for mourning dress. 

_Plein comme un oeuf:_ Full as an egg. An expression for pregnancy

**Next: Christmas at Wargrave **


	50. A Christmas at Wargrave

**Chapter 50: A Christmas at Wargrave **

Jane opened her eyes to the dim light filtering through the heavy bed hangings. She groped for the opening, and peered out. Wisps of snow whitened the lower corners of the mullioned window. She blinked blearily, well-rested but not yet ready to get up. William was still asleep, his back to her. Curious about how much snow had fallen, she crept out of the bed and tiptoed over to see.

The world was white. Jane had never seen so much snow. It actually covered the ground completely, and adorned the drooping trees like sugar icing. She could not guess the actual depth, but there must be at least two inches. It was the strangest landscape she had ever looked upon. The sky, too, looked white. She threw on her shift and her powdering gown, and curled up on the window seat to admire the view.

She heard a sleepy grumble from behind the bed curtains, and smiled to herself. William had never before been so attentive as he had shown himself last night. He had known just how to comfort her when she was so bewildered with the events since his arrival. Those events would certainly change her life: perhaps for the better. Her gaze fell on the sealed letter to Letty lying on her writing table. That much was done. She must also write to Cousin Mary before William departed. He could take her letters back to London faster than the mail wagon.

She pictured the movements of those bits of paper. One would travel express to Bath, and would reach Letty within the week. The other's progress would be slower: perhaps a mailwagon to Portsmouth or Bristol, then a packet to Charlestown. At least the letter to Cousin Mary had a good chance of reaching her, thanks to the cessation of hostilities. It would be well to be certain, though. She would send a copy the next time William visited. Whatever the dangers of the sea, one of those letters should reach and reassure her cousin.

_Papa is dead._ The thought came to her like a lead weight dropped into a pool. She felt a hollowness within her, and wondered if she should be ashamed. She felt very little, really: there was little to feel. _My brother is here—no, my two brothers are here. _This thought stirred a response, but it was a complicated one. She had loved Little Ash very much—she still loved him, but she had said her goodbyes to him and had accepted that he was gone from her life. Now he was back, and back for good. She would have to raise him—and young Thomas as well. It would take time and attention, and inevitably would reduce the amount of care that she could lavish on her own precious William Francis. She was not entirely sure that would be a good thing.

_I'm a fool. They are here, and that's all there is to it. William Francis will have companions and playmates. Ash and Thomas will have all sorts of opportunities. They will live their lives as Englishmen._

She snorted—a rather unladylike sound. Selina might well regret her sons someday. Perhaps even now she was writing to Mary Laurens in Charlestown to recover them. "Well, too bad!" Jane said aloud. Selina could whistle for the boys. She had abandoned them and would have to live with it. It would be quite impossible for her to claim them now, separated as they were by thousands of miles. Probably she would be very angry with Cousin Mary, but there would be nothing she could do. Cousin Mary could calmly point out that a British officer had taken them and that she had been unable to resist. If Selina ever wrote to England to seek legal redress, she would find it heavy going, after having deserted her children, to retrieve the boys from their sister and brother-in-law—whose brother was a Member of Parliament! There was a certain satisfaction in taking something precious from Selina.

She slipped into her dressing room to use the close-stool there, taking care to be very quiet. Pullen was still asleep, the curtain drawn tight to close in the small bed. There was no reason to awaken her. Jane did not feel like dressing yet. Instead, she ran back into the bedchamber, shutting the dressing room door behind her softly, and climbed back up onto the window seat. She could see distant figures in the landscape and wondered what they were doing. Blackbirds called out harshly, their soaring shapes silhouetted against the pale sky.

"Jane?" William had pushed the bed curtains aside, and lay there on his side, He looked very alluring: his scarred chest bare and his dark hair tumbling about his shoulders in elf locks.

She smiled at him. "It snowed. Everything is covered with it. I've never seen anything like it!"

"Really?" He looked concerned, rather than pleased. "I hope we are not snowbound. Bordon would find it inconvenient." He threw the sheet aside and came to the window. "My dear, it's hardly more than a dusting!"

"But look! Everything's covered with it. It's so pretty."

"Not much more than two inches. The carriages should be able to get about, with care. You look cold." He found his pocket-watch, laid out on the night table. "It is but six o'clock! Come back to bed."

He pulled the powdering gown from her shoulders, and tucked her in warmly. He did not immediately get in himself, however. Instead, he reached into a tall chest of drawers for a little red box, and brought it back with him, sliding in beside Jane.

"Oooh!" She objected. "Your feet are cold! What is that?" she asked, eyeing the box with interest.

"You'll have to open it and find out."

Inside, brilliant against the red velvet, was a ring. A fiery opal glowed in the center set, and at each cardinal point a diamond sparkled. Jane removed the ring from the box, quite taken with it. She held it to the light, watching the hot streaks of orange-red and blue-green flickering in the stone's depths.

"This is marvelous!"

"Put it on," he urged her. "I want to make certain that it fits."

"It does! It fits perfectly." She admired it holding her hand out, "I take it that it's for me?"

"No, Jane, it's for Moll! Of course it's for you. Perhaps I should have waited to present it to you before the others, but I could not. I had promised myself to get you something lovely when we were in funds again. Do you like it?"

"Oh, yes! I've never owned an opal before. It's beautiful. It's not proper mourning jewelry, however."

"I don't give a fig for that. I want you to wear it. There's no reason to make yourself an eyesore with jet beads and such rubbish. No one expects a woman to put off her wedding ring because she is in mourning!"

"My wedding ring?"

He grimaced, feeling a little ashamed. "I would like you to consider it so."

She turned and kissed him, still looking at her beautiful ring. "Then I shall. And I must thank you properly for my lovely Christmas gift!"

But there was no time. No sooner had they wrapped their arms around each other and begun the pleasant preliminaries, than one wail and then another rose from the next room. Tavington threw himself back on the bed in frustration. Jane got up and quickly donned the powdering gown again . A pair of Turkish slippers later, she dashed into Moll's room to be welcomed by a pair of hungry baby boys, and another glass of small beer.

"I'm very glad I shan't have to do this for more than a few months," she confided in Moll. "Motherhood is very noble, and all that, but at the moment I feel like a cow!"

Moll snorted, much amused. She had rearranged the room the night before, and had sent a young servant out to borrow a second high chair. "They slept pretty sound, all in all, last night," she told Jane. "The new little fellow woke up early and looked about, but he seemed willing to make friends before he howled for his breakfast. Right nice little man."

"He has a strong jaw," Jane remarked wryly. She noticed that Tom was clutching a scrap of red felt. She thought that he had seized on Will's little soldier doll, until she spotted the old one still in her son's cot. "Moll, did you sit up all night making a toy for this baby?"

Moll's shrugged, her back to her, as she made up her bed. Her voice sounded oddly thick.

"Tweren't nothing. The poor little mite ain't got nothing at all. Didn't take two shakes of a lamb's tail to whip him up a little rag doll. I reckon 'twill keep him happier, and so be well worth the trouble."

"That was very kind of you. I can see he loves it."

He certainly seemed to. The soft soldier doll was pressed to his cheek with one hand as he nursed. With two boys in her lap, there was nothing else Jane could do. It was rather dull, actually, and she wished she could at least read. Rose came in soon, thankfully, and gave them intelligence from the nursery upstairs.

"If you please, ma'am, Betty and Martha are letting the little ones sleep themselves out. 'Twas a hard journey yesterday, Betty says, and the poor little creatures need rest. They wish to know if they may call for nursery breakfast around eight."

"I cannot see that that would be a problem. I already ordered the meals, Rose. Oh—I did not have a chance yet to examine the state of Master Ashbury's belongings. Are they as skimpy as his brother's?"

"I fear so, ma'am. Betty says that Mrs. Bordon says that Captain Bordon says that their cousin said that their mother left them with barely an extra clout apiece. All of their things at their home were gone when the Captain went to collect them. How wicked to rob little children!"

"Wicked indeed," agreed Jane. "I shall have to make some purchases very soon. At least we had the little cots for them!"

Half an hour later, she felt very grave as Pullen helped her into the black bombazine. Looking in the mirror, Jane was glad that she had let Pullen make her up a little. Her maid, when told of Mr. Rutledge's death in distant America, had been quietly sympathetic, but Jane had not missed the silent "_I told_ _you so,"_ in her maid's eye. Pullen had said nothing aloud about that, however.

"You look very proper in the mourning dress, ma'am," her maid had remarked, "but there's no call for you to look sick and pale."

Thinking it over, Jane agreed, and decided that she would look the best she possibly could in black. To her surprise, the funereal dress was not unbecoming. Jane had not worn black in the past few years, and was surprised at how well she looked in it. _Thank goodness._ She felt it was only proper to wear mourning, but there was no reason to pretend anguish she did not feel, or ruin the holiday for her guests and family.

Her maid was rather excited about the new little boys, and had peeked in on them a few times, tutting over the state of their baby linen.

"We must send to Chelmsford, ma'am, or p'raps even London, for a great deal of fine linen. Master Thomas can wear some of Master William's things, but his elder brother has barely a smock to his name! When I was in the Magdalen, the Matron took commissions for baby linen, and I loved working upon it. The feel of that delicate cloth is like a baby's skin—"

Pullen rattled on happily, clearly full of plans for little smocks and coats and caps. Jane was grateful that her maid was so willing to help. Another lady's maid might have sulked, feeling that it was beneath her to do sewing for the nursery. With two new children, there would be work for them all. At least Ashbury was not yet breeched, and simple infant's clothing would do for him.

She emerged from Pullen's room, and was pleased to see that William had donned his dark grey coat, and looked very handsome in it. She had not thought about it, when she had seen him in it yesterday, but of course he ought to acknowledge the death of a father-in-law. He examined her with approval. They had both agreed that while Jane need not make a show of grief, not wearing mourning would be shocking and wrong. There was no reason to cast the decencies of civilized society away.

William smiled at her briefly, taking her by her shoulders, and to her surprise and pleasure, kissed her lightly, ignoring the presence of the valet and maid. They were on their way to breakfast, when a burst of noise from upstairs distracted them. A deep, loud bark was followed by excited squeals.

"It's that dog!" Jane cried impatiently.

Tavington laughed, and the two of them ran up to the second-floor nursery to find the children playing with the big red gundog. Rambler saw them arrive, and sat up, with a happy and somewhat crazed look in his rolling eyes. Robin Bordon had tried to climb onto his back and slid to the floor, giggling. Rambler licked the child's pink face. Jane could almost feel the wind generated by the wagging tail. Susan Bordon was admiring the effect of her blue hair ribbon, which did indeed look jaunty tied around Rambler's left ear. "We match!" she pronounced, comparing her own red curls with Rambler's shiny coat. Ned Protheroe was considering the scene, and then threw himself on the floor, rolling on his back with his legs and arms up, in imitation of the dog.

The door to the little room adjoining burst open, and Ashbury Rutledge, Junior escaped, fresh from his bath.

"I'M NAKEEEEEEE!" he roared triumphantly, little arms pumping, grinning enormously as he flew towards the dog. Jane had to laugh, and nearly teared up at the same time. Ashbury's broad grin recalled the wide mouth of his father, which Jane had unfortunately inherited as well. It brought back a picture of her father in happier days. On Little Ash, the grin was enchanting. Even her husband seemed to think so. He swooped down on the child and caught him up.

"Ha, sirrah! You're caught!"

The little boy struggled, pink and round and bare-bottomed, as Tavington handed him back to the Bordon's nurse.

"Thank you sir! He was that dirty this morning. I had just got him clean and nothing would suit him but to be covered with dog slobber at once!"

Tavington eyed Rambler sympathetically. "I think, old boy, that was a hint. Off you go!"

The children wailed in disappointment, but Tavington was smilingly firm.

"No, Rambler can visit later, once you're all dressed and fed. Come along!" he commanded the dog, who padded obediently away, not without a wistful look back at his young admirers. Tavington reached down to flick off the blue ribbon, and flashed a smile at Jane.

He shut the door after the dog and took a chair watching the mistress and maids organize the children for their breakfast porridge at a little low table with benches on either side. He had had countless meals there himself, and felt quite pleasantly nostalgic as he watched the little people settling down, pushing a little to get the preferred place. In short order, young Ashbury joined them, now in a clean but shabby infant's smock. Jane tied a huge bib around his neck. The little boy seemed not to object to her presence today, more interested in the arrival of breakfast. Jane ran a small ivory comb through the cornsilk-fair curls.

"Where's Mamma?" Susan asked anxiously, and at that moment Harriet Bordon and Lucy Protheroe entered, followed by a nursery maid with a heavily-laden tray. A whine rose from a big red body hidden by the petticoats in the doorway.

"Stay at the table, children!" Harriet commanded the children in a cheerful voice, while Lucy called in an undertone to her brother, "The dog wants to come in. Shall I let him?"

"No," Tavington whispered back. "He'll get the children excited again. Perhaps after their breakfast."

Nursery breakfast was laid out in short order. Cups and porringers and spoons were arranged, pots of cream and honey set on the table, and the covered dish of oat porridge served up.

"There's no milk, Mamma!" complained Ned Protheroe, frowning at his cup of weak cider.

Jane flushed with embarrassment. Their small supply of milk had gone entirely for cooking today. At least some cream had been set aside for breakfast. She had purchased butter in quantity, but had forgotten that some of their "few" children might be accustomed to drinking milk. She did not think cow's milk was safe for children, and had so far been unable to purchase a she-ass, which she thought would provide more digestible milk anyway.

Lucy expertly distracted her little boy from the deficiencies of this strange breakfast table. "Look, my love, there's cream for your porridge, and honey too! How delicious! That is cider, Ned. It is made from apples grown here at Wargrave. I always drank it when I was a little girl."

Harriet discreetly moved away and let Jane help Ash with his breakfast. He spooned up the porridge, and appeared to think the honey worth eating.

"Sweet!" He waved a dripping spoonful for Jane to see. "Sweet!"

"That's honey, Ash. The little bees make it. Do you like it?"

"Esshh!" he decided, licking the spoon thoroughly. He seemed to like the cider too and wanted more. Then he wanted Jane to drink some from his cup, which she did.

"He settled down in the evening very well, and then he said his prayers," Harriet assured her softly, "which now include, all unprompted, 'Sister Jane,' and—" she gave Tavington an arch of a brow "—the Big Man."

"The Big Man?" Tavington asked, amused, "and who might that be?'

"I asked him," laughed Harriet, "and was told 'Sister Jane's Big Man!' So you see."

"Where's Tom?" asked Susan. "Is he going to have breakfast?"

Ashbury looked up anxiously, appearing to have just realized his brother's absence.

Jane said quickly, "Tom is downstairs with my little Will. They are both babies, and had their breakfast together. Perhaps they can come upstairs and visit later."

"Oh, yes!" agreed Susan. "Tom is my little boy. I help take care of him. Is it Christmas today?"

"Kissmas!" shouted Ned Protheroe.

"Yes, today is Christmas Day," Lucy proclaimed. "We shall a special dinner here in the nursery, and tonight you children shall join us for pudding."

The ladies had agreed last night that a full Christmas dinner would be too long and tiring for the little ones. However, they could have naps in the afternoon, and then come down for pudding when the adults were finishing the feast. The door opened again, and John peered in, grinning.

"Look at the little blackguards. It's a jolly sight to see children at that table again! Have they finished breakfast?"

"Very nearly!" said Lucy. "Oh, come in! I can see you're as impatient as ever."

John was obviously plotting something. "Cobb Jeffreys thinks the snow is getting deep enough to take the sleigh out for a run on the Sunken Road."

"How wonderful!" cried Lucy. She told Harriet, "The Sunken Road lead to the Low Pasture and is very smooth. It's not a long drive. We could take turns, for the sleigh only holds two passengers with ease—or more, with children! Oh, John, do let's go sleighing! I must tell Edward!" She and John dashed from the room, already planning the outing.

"We still haven't had breakfast ourselves," Jane whispered to Tavington.

"Oh, go on!" laughed Harriet. "I'll stay with Betty and Martha. Just send me word if you are really going sleighing. I love it!"

"What's sleighing, Mamma?" Susan asked.

"Something I used to do when I was younger, darling—"

Tavington took Jane by the hand, and they left the room, nearly tripping over Rambler. "Come along. Surely John has left some breakfast for us!"

As they reached the first floor, they heard a familiar bark and an explosion of excited children's voices. Tavington observed, with professional demeanour, "It would appear that Rambler has successfully infiltrated the nursery!"

Jane had never ridden in a sleigh, either. Tavington made her eat a hearty breakfast in preparation. Once the two black ponies, Midnight and Jet, were harnessed to the little sleigh, a party of warmly dressed gentlemen and ladies straggled out the door, barely keeping four excited little children in check. There were bells affixed to the harness, which jingled musically when the ponies pawed and fidgeted. The children were particularly charmed by this accessory, and had to be restrained from coming too close.

"Why are there bells?" Jane asked her husband in an undertone. "Is it because it's Christmas?"

"No," he explained. "It's because a sleigh moves so silently that the bells give warning of its approach."

Jane admired the little vehicle. It was low and light, and the seats were piled high with blankets and furs. Jane was beginning to feel some excitement at such a novel mode of transportation.

"And 'tis I shall be your coachman!" John declared, doffing his hat. "I have no lady to partner, so I'll just perch up here," he swung into the driver's seat, "And take you all in turn! Who's first? Our guests, Captain and Mrs. Bordon?"

The Tavingtons and Protheroes all thought that very proper. Bordon and Harriet settled into the little sleigh and Robin and Susan were held tightly on their laps. The ponies' hooves were muffled by the snow. The sleigh started up, gliding soundlessly save for the silvery bells. The snow was falling again: a few desultory flakes. The silence was broken somewhat by the happy cries of Susan and Robin, growing fainter by the second in the immense stillness. Ashbury began to look forlorn, seeing his "Mamma" and his best friends driving away.

"Are they comin' back?" he asked, his lip trembling.

"Of course they shall. Then Ned and his parents shall have their turn, and then you'll go with the Colonel and me," Jane reassured him.

He was still very worried, but did not start howling, so she gave thanks for that. Tavington took Ned and Ashbury aside, and distracted the boys by showing them how to make a snowball. The snow was a bit light and soft for it, but Ned and Ashbury were soon mashing lumps of snow in their hands, giggling as they tossed them at each other's heads with wild inaccuracy, squealing with fearful joy when one powdery missile hit Tavington in the eye. Lucy grinned at the sight. Protheroe crouched carefully by his son, and a very tentative snow fight, with each tiny boy coached by a tall, great-coated provocateur, ensued. Then the boys were shown how interesting footprints in the snow were, and how to tell which prints were made by whom, and how pretty snowflakes were. Tavington spotted some rabbit tracks, and told the excited little boys what they were.

The Bordons reappeared, gliding back, accompanied by the music of the bells. Jane was beginning to feel cold, but kept herself amused by the sight of the boys, little and big, messing about in the snow. When it was finally time for her own sleigh ride, she wrapped herself thankfully in the rugs and furs and saw that Ashbury was warm too, cuddled against her. Tavington put an arm around her shoulders, and pulled her close. Sleighing was a strange sensation.

"I can see why Lucy likes it so much!" she told Tavington. "It's so smooth! Do you like this, Ash?"

The little boy nodded vigorously. "But I'm cold," he complained, snuggling closer.

"You'll be warm soon. Isn't this fox fur tickly?"

He giggled, as she pulled it under his chin.

"Faster, you sluggard!" Tavington called to his brother

John laughed, and obliged with a snap of the whip. Jane looked up in wonder. The lane was low and white, and overhead, over-arching branches drooped. They glided along, without a bounce, without a rumble.

"I wish riding in a carriage could be like this!" she said, thinking of all the times she had been shaken sick by rough roads. Tavington smiled and gave her shoulder a squeeze.

It was strangely peaceful: the white world, the silence broken only by the sleighbells, the smooth motion along the snow, the pleasant-scented warmth of his wife, nestled close. Her hood was speckled white with snowflakes. A few clung to his own lashes. He kissed her brow, and she smiled up at him.

"I have never had such a Christmas!" she told him.

He laughed at her."And this is just the beginning!"

Too soon, it was over, but Jane began to see what William meant. Once the sleigh rides were finished, John decided to visit the tenants. He and Jeffreys decided that there was just enough snow that he could use the sleigh for this, if he went immediately.

"Elsewise, the High Street will be all stirred up and muddy, and you'll never get along, sir. The snow ain't proper deep in places. P'raps if it's just you and me and the parcels we can manage well enough."

Harriet and Lucy herded the children away, to get warm in the nursery. Tavington invited Protheroe and Bordon to the library for mulled wine and good talk. Jane helped prepare John for his visits. She had made a list of the families and individuals to be visited, and had prepared baskets of drink and foodstuffs for each. The footmen loaded the sleigh to her specifications, and John stepped in, now a passenger, for Cobb Jeffreys took the coachman's place, and the two of them were off.

"Do give my best wishes to them all!" Jane called after John, giving him a parting wave, looking forward to sitting down.

"No fear!" John shouted back. "They'll know well enough that it's all your doing!"

Yes, she saw. It was just the beginning. She had never had such a day of enjoyment, surrounded by friends, with a husband kind and affectionate. There was no sniping, no insults, no boredom. Everyone was interested in everyone else: no one was looking for opportunities to lord it over the others or make anyone else feel small. Jane had never imagined how good life could be among like-minded people. It was so entertaining that she actually welcomed the long quiet periods of nursing the babies, for it gave her rest from so much unaccustomed society.

Jane had yet another new experiences on this wonderful Christmas. After the children's dinner, everyone gathered in the drawing room, and the children were brought down to be given a gift in honor of the day. Susan Bordon received a lovely doll, much like Fanny Martingale's, only dressed in blue instead of pink (for Bordon had found that Sir John knew where such an item was to be had). Ned Protheroe squealed at the sight of a wooden Harlequin, gaily painted, whose hinged joints allowed him postures not commonly observed in Nature. For Robin Bordon, his parent's had found a large and brilliant top that the boy's father showed him how to spin at amazing length. The toy attracted the men, each of whom had his own, correct technique for the proper spinning of tops. In short order, there were stiff, civil disagreements in deep, earnest voices. Lucy laughed openly at her husband. Harriet patted Bordon's hand, and said she hoped his sermons were equally heart-felt.

Jane smiled, sitting by Ashbury, and was touched, in the midst of the excitement, to find that her husband had not forgotten her little brother. With shining eyes, he was soon examining a wonderful little wooden horse on wheels, which he found could be pulled after him wherever he liked by means of a sturdy string. He led his small, crimson-painted steed to a corner, and sat comfortably on the floor, pushing the toy back and forth, lifting it upside down to admire the rolling wheels.

The two babies, each in a nurse's arms, had little rattles, which added to the general pandemonium. Jane remembered all the charmless Christmases of her childhood: church in the morning and no gifts; dinner with Miss Gilpin; reading a book or stitching quietly with Letty. This was certainly different, and quite wonderful.

She could not know that Tavington, too, thought this the best Christmas of his life. He was observing the happy faces, and felt quite happy himself. Jane, even dressed in funereal black, looked so pleased with everything, and seemed to have made good friends with Harriet and Lucy. The two ladies were admiring the opal ring. All the family fellowship was a great joy, but of course no mortal happiness could be perfect. Underlying it all was the reality of the world outside this island of peace and cheer: a war lost, distant comrades suffering, a doubtful political forecast, his mother's dementia, guilt over Caroline and Penelope, concern for the future of his two new charges. He gave a deep sigh. Jane heard him.

"What is wrong?"

He laughed shortly. "Nothing _here._ I foolishly allowed myself to think of something other than the scene before us. It will pass."

Ashbury wanted him to look at his marvelous toy. Tavington smiled and sat down beside the boy, agreeing that Red Horse was a magnificent creature

Jane touched his shoulder. "Look."

Susan Bordon was gently kissing Thomas' cheek. "You're my nice baby boy," she told him. Then noticing William Francis in Rose's arms, she was surprised. She turned to her mother. "Two babies! They look alike!" She pointed to William Francis, and asked, "Is that Tom's brother, too?"

Tavington winced. Jane winced. John was instantly alert, as if suddenly seeing something in a new way. Harriet's smile became a little strained, and it was clear that she understood the situation. Bordon was not discomposed in the least, and pulled Susan up into his lap, and kindly explained to her the complicated relationships among the little boys, and that Thomas was little Will's uncle, and what that meant.

"But he looks just like him!" Susan insisted. "Are you sure they're not brothers?"

"Quite sure," Bordon said easily.

The Protheroes, thank God, had noticed nothing, as they laughed over Harlequin's remarkable acrobatics. Tavington caught the question in John's eyes, and gave him a look that said _'I don't want to talk about it.' _

Young appeared at the doorway. "If you please, Sir John, there are some village folk at the door, come to 'wassail' you, as they say."

"Ha! Show them into the Great Hall!" John leaped from his seat.

Jane did not understand what was going on, but clearly her husband and Lucy did, for they rose, looking pleased. Everyone trailed out of the drawing room. The children were full of questions, and then paused at the sight of strangers bearing a great steaming pewter vessel that smelled of ale and apples and spices.

"The Wassail Bowl!" John bellowed. "Come, ladies! Bring the children, too! Here, my good fellows," he said to the wassailers, distributing money among them, "Here's for your trouble. Thank you for coming,"

Jane whispered to Lucy, "What does one do with it? Should I have the servants bring out some goblets?"

"No. That's not how we do it here. Go on, go up and stand by John. You're the lady of the house. Follow John's lead."

Tavington saw his wife looking uncertain, and took her by the hand, leading her to his side. John was already taking the wassail bowl in his two hands, lifting it up, and with a hearty, "Good health to you all!" took a deep, long draught of it. He turned to Jane, grinning, and held the bowl for her.

"I drink right out of the bowl?" Jane whispered anxiously to Tavington.

"That's right. A long drink, too, or you'll wound their sensibilities. Go on!"

Jane smiled shyly, and drank. Roasted apples bobbed on the foamy surface of the spiced ale. One of them bumped against Jane's nose, but she took a good swallow, and smiled again. "It's very good," she told everyone.

They all drank from the bowl in turn. Even the children were given a sip—the babies a drop on their tongues, which made them open their blue eyes wide and smack small mouths with surprise and appreciation. The nursemaids, too, were called forth. Rose took a timid sip, and Moll a deep quaff. Young, their new butler, was last, and he drained the bowl.

The village blacksmith told them, "We've got a full kettle on the fire for to wassail the trees now. Would it please Your Honors to come?"

"Start with the little orchard by the North Entrance," John commanded. "It is not too far for the ladies to walk, if they wish to see this."

Jane could see that Moll was as curious as herself, and so she arranged her for her to come along, carrying the children with the other nursemaids. Cloaks and coats were donned again, and the party left through the door between the library and drawing room, down a path past the little low wall, past a garden walk, and into a stand of apple trees. The wassailers, now grown to nearly the entire population of the village came around by the front.

Two strong men carried a big steaming cauldron slung between them on stout poles. Young women carried loaves of bread. They entered the orchard, and in the center found the oldest tree. John was offered a hunk of bread, which he good-naturedly dipped in the wassail, and then laid on the roots of the tree. Jane started at the sudden shout from the village men, more chant than song:

_"Stand fast root, bear well top! _

_Pray the god send us a howling good crop. _

_Every twig, apples big. _

_Every bough, apples now." _

The women called out in their turn:

_"And the very health of each other tree. _

_Well may ye blow, well may ye bear _

_Blossom and fruit both apple and pear. _

_So that every bough and every twig _

_May bend with a burden both fair and big. _

_May ye bear us and yield us fruit such a store _

_That the bags and chambers and house run o'er."_

And then, together:

_"Here's to thee, old apple-tree, _

_Whence thou mayst bud, and whence thou mayst blow! _

_And whence thou mayst bear apples enow! _

_Hats full! _

_Caps full! _

_Bushel-bushel-sacks full, _

_And my pockets full too! _

_Huzzah!" _

John joined in the "Huzzah!" and clapped his hands loudly. Tavington, beside him, cocked an ear down to old Mrs. Carter, who was offering him a piece of bread and whispering in his ear, looking at Jane. He laughed, but obediently dipped the bread in the wassail.

"Here, Jane! I am told you should eat this."

Mrs. Carter added earnestly, "'Twill help you conceive before apple harvest. Or, if you are already with child, 'twill make the little one red and white and sound as an apple."

Jane glanced behind her, and saw Moll eagerly dipping a piece of bread in the fragrant, steaming wassail. Their eyes met and they smiled at each other.

-----

The celebration could be seen from an upstairs window of the steward's house. Porter and his guest peered out, watching Sir John, with his family and friends, laughing and talking with the villagers, parading through the trees with the great pot of wassail.

"That's her, ain't it?" queried the visitor, pointing a dirty finger at a small figure in a fine grey cloak."Hard to tell at this distance."

"Yes." Porter cleared his throat. "That is Mrs. Tavington."

"Visits here every Thursday like clockwork, you said."

"That's right. Around noon or so. The company will be departing on the twenty-seventh and she will be quite alone. She sent a note saying that she will call on Boxing Day, and not on her usual Thursday. She'll come the next week though, as usual."

"Good enough." He flopped back on the bed, looking at the ceiling as he considered matters. "I'll just have to be ailing for another week. Have that maid of yours bring me up a bit of dinner. Wouldn't want your long-lost 'cousin' wasting away."

Porter gave a nod, as he left. "Thursday then. The Third of January."

His visitor grinned. "The day we both get a bit of our own back."

* * *

**Note: **"Breeching" a boy happened about age four, when he was absolutely, positively toilet-trained, and was put in boy's clothes for the first time. Up until then, infants of both sexes were clothed alike in little dresses, which made changing the little ones easier. 

**Next—Chapter 51: The Third of January**

* * *

**  
**


	51. The Third of January

**Chapter 51: The Third of January **

After Christmas the cold mitigated, the winds calmed, and most of the snow vanished from the roads. Boxing Day was a happy occasion. Jane, helped by Lucy, presented the servants with their gifts in the Great Hall. Jane wanted Moll and Rose to join in the festivities, and was grateful when the Bordons agreed to entertain the children for the duration. Jane wanted to see the servants' faces, if only to know she had judged rightly in their gifts.

She was not disappointed. Clothes, so expensive, so hard to come by, were very welcome. The young footmen could hardly wait to deck themselves out in their livery, the older servants were grateful for the warm cloaks. The maids whispered excitedly about how they would fashion their new gowns out of the fine cloth given them. Jane's own maidservants' liked their petticoats very much.

"Can't deny I've been feeling the chill. Saves me time and a heap of trouble, to have a fine quilted petticoat ready-made!" Moll wasted no time hauling hers on. "Heavy thing, ain't it?" she considered. "Just the thing to keep my knees warm, though. Looks good with my best gown."

Moll looked well indeed. The petticoat was a darker green than the gown, and showed below the gown's hem an inch or two. She had found a bit of green ribbon and had trimmed her best cap with it, and felt very fine, and ready to be married. Jane knew it, too, and taking a moment alone with Moll, talked over her plans for the next few months. She had discussed the matter at length with her husband and his brother, and knew that whatever was decided, she would not be perfectly pleased with the outcome. She was determined, however, to not be the sort of selfish domestic tyrant she had seen and despised elsewhere.

"Captain Bordon is going back to London tomorrow, Moll. He will be ordained on Twelfth Night and return directly. He will publish the banns for you and Young at his first church service. However," she shifted uneasily, seeing all the complications before her. "However, I wanted to tell you some things that may affect you sooner or later. First—and this is a great secret—Sir John may marry next year. In that case, his wife will be the lady of the house."

"Good for him!" Moll interjected. "I reckon he'll be a good husband, if he can keep away from the liquor."

"Yes—well—" Jane said, embarrassed, "that's as may be. The other issue involves the Colonel. His mother, as you know, is very ill. The house in London will be his after she is gone, and I plan to live there most of the year." Seeing Moll's brows knit, she hurried on. "We all have seen how much you like living here at Wargrave, and Sir John is very pleased with how Young has taken hold of things. He has a mind to make him the butler here permanently. The wages would be very good, and since he would be married, Sir John would allow him a cottage free of rent. I don't know if—" she paused, seeing the wild excitement in Moll's eyes, and felt a little aggrieved, knowing what was to come—" I don't know if you have noticed Ironsides Cottage—"

"Ironsides Cottage!" cried Moll, looking radiant. "'Tis as good as a gentleman's house!"

"It is a pretty cottage, is it not? I'm told it looks even better in the summer. At any rate, it would be yours for however long you and Young remain at Wargrave, and I'm sure it would be a comfortable home for you and any children—" she stopped, because Moll had burst into tears.

"Thank the Lord!" she positively bawled. "Thank the Lord! I wasn't sure how to break it to you—"

"Moll—are you—with child?"

She was seized in a pair of brawny arms and squeezed heartily. "That I am! I reckon it'll come in August!"

"How—wonderful!" Jane pulled herself together, and repeated, more sincerely, "How wonderful! I know this must make you very happy, to have a little one of your own again! No, don't cry, Moll, for I have more to discuss with you. The Colonel and I want you to be happy, but we were wondering if you could help us a little longer. You have already had the smallpox, but some of the servants at Mortimer Square have not. While we have been gone, Miss Penelope has arranged for them all to be inoculated. It will make the house in London much safer for William Francis—and my brothers, who will be living there, too. After I have gone to London, I have asked Sir John to have the inoculator come out to Wargrave, too, and see to the servants here. Rose has never had the disease, and I would like her to stay and be inoculated. She might need some time to recover, too. I know it's a bad time for you, since you will getting married in a few weeks, but could you come with us to London until Rose is ready to replace you?"  
She gave a helpless shrug. "For that matter, Rose may not want to come to London at all!"

"No—she's proud to have her situation, and I know she wouldn't mind going to town—" Moll frowned, considering. "'Twould only be for a month or so—" She brightened. "Well, why not? I can get things settled a bit here, and then go to town, I reckon. That money their lordships gave me could come in mighty useful, setting up housekeeping, and you with three little boys to get settled— yes, ma'am. I'll come with you. I'll talk it over with Tom, and he'll see it's for the best."

The two of them walked to Ironsides Cottage that very day. It was furnished with plain and serviceable oak furniture that Moll ran her hands over lovingly. She walked all through the house, her stout boots clumping on the wooden floors and then up the narrow staircase. Jane followed, smiling at Moll's exclamations at the good size of one of the beds. The cottage had been locked up for some time, though, and would need cleaning. Without cups or plates, without bedclothes, without any but the crudest of cooking pots, Jane thought it would need much to make it habitable. Moll felt differently, and was undaunted by the challenge. Jane assessed the house, considering what would be the best wedding gifts.

Jane called that afternoon on the Porters, with a footman behind her carrying a large basket. John had not stopped here, as he was still angry with Porter for his dishonesty. Mrs. Porter greeted her, and when Jane disclosed the reason for the visit, she began to weep into a handkerchief. The eldest girl, Deborah, took charge in a way that touched Jane, showing Jane to a seat, and helping her mother to hers.

"We are very happy to see you today, ma'am," the child said earnestly, looking about with a blush.

The house was in confusion. It was generally rather well kept; but today papers were everywhere, and the children's toys were scattered about. Mrs. Porter appeared to be unwell and in low spirits. It was her ten-year-old daughter who asked Jane if she would take some tea, so earnestly that Jane felt it would be unkind if she did not. And it was the child who saw that the tea was prepared, and arrived, and was served with some decree of decorum.

Jane sighed to herself, looking at the girl. She was a gawky, plain child, with long, mouse-brown hair, sallow skin, and lashless brown eyes. Nonetheless, there was a certain energy and spirit about her that Jane liked very much. She thought it a pity that a little girl must have to do so much at home. The other children were so _much_ younger, that everything must devolve on poor Deborah.

The children gathered round to receive Mrs. Tavington's bounty: oranges and sugared almonds, small toys and hair ribbons. She thought all the little Porters very nice children, and they upheld their reputation, bobbing gracefully and thanking her effusively. Porter arrived, hanging back, rather red-faced when Jane presented his wife with a bottle of good Madeira for their holiday cheer. While the children were charming, the older Porters made her feel somewhat unwelcome and uncomfortable.

Porter stammered, "My cousin is visiting. The poor fellow is quite ill. He's resting upstairs."

"I am sorry to hear it," Jane said. "Perhaps a glass of wine will do him good. I shall not make my usual call this Thursday, but I shall see you Thursday week. Happy Christmas to you."

Mrs. Porter's smile was strained, and Jane was glad to leave soon. No doubt the balance of their debt, due at Twelfth Night, lay heavy upon them.

-----

Jane expressed her own disappointment about Moll's marriage to Tavington that night. He was to go back to town with the others the next morning, but had promised to return to fetch Harriet to join her husband for the ordination on Epiphany, the sixth, which this year would fall on a Sunday. Afterwards, they would all return to Wargrave the following day for a belated Twelfth Night dinner. Sir John intended to introduce his new clergyman in style.

"I know it's unworthy and selfish of me to resent it, but I'm so sorry that Moll is leaving us. I suppose it's natural and all, but in South Carolina, if I had had a slave as a nursemaid, I wouldn't have had to worry about losing her to marriage. Won't she miss William Francis?"

Tavington had always had views on slavery, but now was not the time to trot them out. Besides, he was sorry himself that Moll would not be a permanent fixture at Mortimer Square. "Moll is not a slave, Jane. Wouldn't you rather have William Francis than look after than the children of other people? It is indeed natural. My dear, it's not as if we're losing her completely. She will work in the nursery whenever we are at Wargrave, and that will be often. We are fortunate that we are so close to London. We can come out frequently—you told me that there is still much to do before John's marriage. You will spend the summers here, most likely. Would you rather Moll grew old in service, never being a mother again herself?"

"Oh, when you put it that way—yes, I know I'm being selfish. I must overcome this. Help me think of something to get them for a wedding present. I shall have Pullen make them some bed linen, and we shall have a quilting party for Moll's benefit, but I should like to give her something very nice. I know! Ask Penelope to buy her a tea set—something bright and pretty—and a nice tea chest."

Tavington smiled indulgently at her chatter, and then stopped it with a kiss. He would not see her for over a week, and wanted to make some pleasant memories. Jane liked love-making best on her back, and so Tavington rolled over, and gently divested her of her soft linen shift. She was left wearing nothing but a ruffled white cap, which made him smile.

"You look very prim and proper, even when completely naked, Jane. When you suckle the babies, you remind me of a painting of the virtue of Charity."

"Only _you_ would say something like that!" But she did not complain as his hands and lips ran lightly over her milk-swollen breasts. She stroked the long dark hair back from his face, and then shut her eyes, loving his touch. His clever fingers eased her thighs apart, teasing her gently.

"What's this?" he purred. "Already wet? What have you been thinking about, my dear?"

She gave his hair a tug. "About all I have to do for the next few days, and no William to reward me at night! And don't tease me! You know what I want."

"I live to serve."

-----

There were kisses and embraces, and Jane and Harriet were left in possession of the Hall. A trip to the vicarage was arranged, to accustom the Bordon children to the idea that they would be living there, and to prepare Ash for their coming separation. There were sulks: there were tantrums. Jane would have found it exhausting had she not had Harriet's support and Moll's encouragement. In the end, Harriet went to the vicarage with her children and their nursemaid. Jane decided to stay home and let them have their new house to themselves.

She applied herself to comforting Ash. He was brought down to Moll's room with his toys, at first rather grumpily stamping around the room, trailing Red Horse behind him. The babies, at least, seemed to have taken to one another. They were too small to play together, but they liked to sit close together on the nursery rug, each playing with his own toys. Ash grew bored with them and lay on the floor, kicking his feet. Jane came to play the tickle-fly game with him--the game he had loved as a baby. Blue eyes followed her hand, and grew wider as her finger came down to poke his belly. Shrieks of laughter ensued, and also, strangely, a curious look that Jane fancied was a kind of recognition. Perhaps Ash would learn to accept her, in time.

"Where's the Big Man?" he asked, out of the blue.

"The Colonel is in London, Ash."

"Is he comin' back?"

"In a few days." She drew him close and tried to help him understand his strange new world. "We have a house in London—the big city. You stayed there when you first came to England. Do you remember?"

He shrugged. Jane tried not to be discouraged. "That is our house," she explained, simplifying the situation to his level of understanding. "We came out here to the country for Christmas, but we'll also go to London sometimes. The nursery there is very nice, too. There is a rocking horse and a puppet theatre."

He did not understand what that was, so she took an old stocking, drew a face on it, and used it to tell him stories. He was very enamored of this new play—something he had never seen before—and was so well entertained that he did not ask a single time after Robin and Susan while they were gone. Of course, as soon as they returned, he was wild to show it to them, and Jane had to repeat the whole of her silly play—and silly voice. Then nothing would do but for each of the children to make a puppet. Jane groaned at the decimation of her supply of stockings, but at least she now had money to buy new ones when they returned to London. Harriet joined in, and quite a thrilling story was concocted, involving a princess, a soldier, and a rebel.

Susan asked of the rebel puppet, "Was the rebel like the high women who chased you when you were in your carriage?"

Jane was perplexed. "High women?"

Harriet was much amused. "She must have heard us talking. The word is highwayman, darling. That means a robber who attacks people on the highway. A man, not a woman. Yes, two highwaymen chased Mrs. Tavington, but she escaped."

Susan was a little disappointed that such glamorous characters were mere men, but she and the boys wanted to hear all about the adventure.

Moll was grinning, so Jane said, "Mrs. Royston there shot at them with her musket and frightened them away."

Moll was then the object of awe and admiration, and the three older children hung about her until she told them the story in her own words. The end of the story signaled a new puppet play entitled "Mrs. Royston Fights the Highwaymen." A very grand puppet was made to represent her, with red yarn hair and an enormous smile. The princess puppet was Jane, and the two boys' puppets the defeated villains.

Ash was thoughtful after the play, and asked, "Will the bad men come back?"

"No, of course, not Ash. They were so scared they ran away." She smiled and ruffled his hair, and the little boy seemed comforted.

After that, he began to deal better with the idea that Susan and Robin had a house of their own, and that when the Captain came back they would go there and Ash would visit.

"Even when we go to London, Ash, we will come back often, and you can play with them every time."

Time after time she had to reassure him that he would live with Jane and that he would not be taken away from her by someone else. She did not want to start with the complications that would ensue when Sir John married and introduced a strange little girl into the nursery.

_One thing at a time. At least he seems to like me again. _

-----

On Thursday, just after noon, Jane set out to pay her weekly call on Mrs. Porter and her children. Harriet had excused herself from the visit, pleading all that she needed to accomplish before Colonel arrived on Friday to take her to London. Jane considered a quarter-mile not worth the trouble of Jeffreys saddling a pony, and so she set off on foot alone, trudging through a grey crust of the remaining snow. If she walked fast, she could make the call and be back before the children had their dinner.

The softening whiteness was gone from the trees, leaving them naked and brown, branches lifted high as if pleading for a surcease from the cold. Jane walked under them, hood pulled low, wrapped in her cloak, watching her breath puff out before her in a cloud, her very nostrils becoming stiff with the chill. The lane curved gently past the church and a little farther on to the steward's house. Jane, her head down, was so intent on watching her feet that she did not see the man standing the middle of the lane, waiting for her.

"Mrs. Tavington, ain't it?"

Jane looked up, fearfully startled. He was no one she knew: a long-shanked man in shabby finery. A plain, square face, heavy-jawed. He was smiling at her, and sketched a little bow.

"Good day to you," Jane replied politely, and made to pass him by. She was just next to him when a tree-like arm shot out and barred her way. Jane flinched, and backed away. Perhaps the man was drunk.

Very quietly, she said, "I pray you, let me pass. Mrs. Porter is expecting me."

He was still smiling, the damnable smile of someone who hugs secret knowledge to himself. "I think you'll well where you are, ma'am. 'Tis uncivil to cut an old acquaintance."

Her eyes searched his face, see nothing there she knew. A creeping chill of unease made her knees tremble. It was time to get away.

"Truly, sir, I do not know you. If you will not let me pass, then I must go back."

She turned away, her heart beating faster. With shocking quickness, the massive arm was before her.

"Not friendly, are you, you fine ladies?"

"Please let me go. Come up to the Hall, and you will be given food and drink—and money," Jane whispered.

Her lips barely moved. He was coming closer. Jane turned away, and they began circling. Somehow, Jane felt safer with her back to the road leaving to Wargrave. She forced herself to keep on speaking.

"My husband, Colonel Tavington, will be very angry if he feels you have used me ill."

A casual grab, and Jane was lifted off her feet by two big, bruising hands grasping her upper arms. She gasped in fright and shock as she crashed to the ground. The stranger stood over her, still smiling.

"Your husband _the Colonel_ is in London! D'you think I'm a fool?"

Jane scrambled back, wincing at the twinge where she had landed on her left elbow. The man seemed enormously tall, as she looked up at him in horror. He walked slowly after, not hurrying in the least.

"Colonel Tavington is in London," he said, slowly, as if to a stupid child. "'And Mrs. Tavington calls on the Porters every Thursday.' You weren't hard to find."

"Who _are_ you?" she cried. "Why are you doing this?"

He grinned, and pulled his coat up to his chin. He called out in a deep, threatening voice, "Stand and deliver!" With another grin, he pointed his finger at her, miming a gun. "Boom!"

"You're one of those highwaymen—one of the Carver Brothers!"

In three strides he was upon her. "I'm the only Carver Brother now, you rotten little whore! My brother's dead, and it's your doing!" he bellowed. Spittle flew in Jane's face. "Dick Carver, me! You'll hang for murder, after I'm done with you!"

"Oh, my God!" Jane got her feet under her and bolted up like a rabbit. Carver pounced on her, seizing her against him, laughing. The world was full of his laughter, his horrible strength, his bad, rancid smell. Flailing wildly, Jane got in a lucky blow with the heel of her hand and smashed his nose. Carver reeled back, roaring in pain. Jane froze for a split-second and then ran.

_I'll never see my baby again! I'll never see my baby again! _Her breath came in quick gasps and she suddenly realized that screaming might be a good idea.

"Help me!" she shrieked, her thin scream trailing behind her.

"She want to play at a little tup-running, does she, the little vixen? Run all you like, your ladyship, you won't get away!" He jogged after her, laughing nastily.

Jane looked about her desperately, hoping to see a farmer, a servant, a washerwoman—anyone at all. The lane before her was empty, but she darted up it anyway, remembering that it was but a quarter mile to the Hall. The church loomed up, and she thought for a minute of running inside, but she could not hope to outrace him there, and had no keys to lock him out if she did. The vicar's house was clean and ready, awaiting its new master. Oh God! Why was Bordon not already back?

"Getting tired, milady? Ready to ride the three-legged nag?"

She glanced behind her, and whimpered with horror at the sight of the rope he pulled from within his coat: a rope with a noose at the end. Fear gave her wings. Her pace lengthened, her hands clutched up at her skirts, hiking them up out of her way. A spatter of cold water flecked her stockings as she splashed through a puddle.

_Think, Jane! How to delay him? Money?_

She had some in a pocket. Clumsily, she gathered her petticoats in one hand, rummaging frantically through her petticoat slit for the coins. There! She cast them behind her, heard the sweet clink of precious metal, and ran on. Was he stopping? His tread behind her slowed indeed—stopped—and then renewed.

"I can gather them up after you're dead, you ugly little doxy. After I've cut off your fingers for your rings."

He was getting closer. Jane spied a fallen tree branch, fairly straight. With hardly a thought, she snatched it up and turned to fight. Carver was not five yards away, and had not broken a sweat. He had been following her, mocking her, and now he found the sight of her grasping her makeshift weapon uproariously funny.

Eyes bulging in mock fear, he flung out his arms, and in a shrill falsetto, wailed, "Oh, don't hurt me, milady. I'm but a poor little tobyman, and you a great fierce lady! " He grinned, and lunged at her. "Huh!"

Jane swung, and missed, as he jumped back laughing. He paced back and forth, with another high-pitched squeal of fright. "Boo!" he shouted.

She swung again, more cautiously. Very slowly, she began to back away in the direction of Wargrave.

"Not much to look at up close, are you?" he sneered. "Plain as porridge, for all your finery and shinery!"

Jane narrowed her eyes, and shifted the grip on the branch. The bark was rough through her kid gloves. A few twigs poked helter-skelter from the end, making her ridiculous. She kept backing away, trying to picture in her mind exactly how the lane to Wargrave looked. Every foot, every yard gave her a better chance of escape.

She gave another weak swing, and Carver burst out laughing. "A handy thing to bash a lady's_ fucking head in_!" He spread his arms wide again, eyes shut in triumphant bliss. "Come now, ma'am, try again."

Jane snarled, and with all her weight and strength instantly thrust the ragged end of the branch into his face.

Carver screamed, clutching at his head. Blood poured from his damaged right eye. He scrabbled at the branch, shoving it away. Jane dropped her end of the branch and froze again, shocked at what she had done.

Only for a moment. She then took her heels and ran for her life.

"I'll kill you, you damned bitch!" Carver screamed.

A gun shot roared behind her, and Jane screamed in response. He had not even bothered to threaten her with his gun, despising her, thinking she was alone and helpless. Footsteps thudded as he shambled in pursuit, howling in agony. She cried again as a sharp pain stabbed at her ribs. For a dreadful moment she thought had been shot, but then realized that it was a stitch in her side from running. She had never in her life run so fast or so far. Pressing her hand to her side, she ran on. A corner of Wargrave Hall appeared through the dead tree branches. Her ears were filled with her own sobbing gasps. If only she could cut across the pasture to the Hall—but she could not—she must stay on the path that would take her to the gate in the low wall protecting the lawn. An indistinct bellow followed her, a distant bull's challenge of rage.

Jane ran on. Her side hurt terribly. Black spots flashed across her vision. _I won't faint!_ She shut every else out but the need to run, and did not at first hear the horses' hooves behind her, did not hear the carriage wheels, did not hear the coachman's shout. Dick Carver crashed into her like an avalanche, smashing her to the ground. Rough hands seized her by the throat, the ragged dirty nails digging into her skin. Darkness bloomed before her as she fought for air. She felt herself growing weaker, utterly powerless, and was swept away in a tide of anguished regret and despair. She did not even feel the pain of her head striking the rocky earth.

------

"Colonel! There's trouble up ahead!" Doggery shouted from his perch on the coachman's box. Not sure that his master had heard, he shouted again. "Colonel! Sir John! There's a fight! A man's chasing after a woman!"

Inside the coach, John chuckled. "A bit cold for that, wouldn't you say?"

Tavington smiled back and craned out of the window. A man was running along the road shouting. He did not recognize him from the back. The fellow was dressed in a tattered gentleman's coat. "He's not from the village, John, unless he's dressed for holiday sport!"

John leaned out of the other window, curious. They were drawing closer by the second, and heard a gunshot. Instantly the situation changed.

The two men exchanged a quick, shocked glance. Tavington leaned out of the window and saw the man in pursuit of a cloaked woman. _I know that cloak…I know that cloak!_

"Jane!"

He clawed for his sword. The coach was nearly level with the man and woman running along the road. Tavington slammed the door open and leaped to the ground: stumbling, his hand touching the ground. And then he was tearing after his wife's attacker. Who could it be? Who would dare harm Jane? He screamed aloud as the stranger caught up to Jane and bore her to the ground. Horrified, he saw the small figure struggle helplessly, saw the man's hands on her throat. He was only yards away—

John was shouting something, but Tavington was deaf to anything but the rushing blood in his ears. The brute was shaking Jane, and then looked up, his face a mask of blood and rage. He tossed Jane aside, and she fell limp as a broken doll. Tavington screamed again, his heart bursting in fear, and he was running, both hands gripping the sword hilt, lifting the blade.

Carver staggered to his feet, raising an arm to ward off this sudden attack. Tavington did not slow for an instant. He cut down with all his strength, like a butcher. There was a shriek and the meaty sound of steel rending flesh and bone. Blood splashed up. He glared into the shocked, agonized face, and pulled the blade free. Another slash, and another, and another; and then shrieks died to a gurgle, and the bulging eyes glazed. Distantly Tavington heard men's shouts and the horse's squeals as they were reined in, hard.

"Will!"

The coach had stopped. John jumped down, followed by the three servants.

Tavington dropped to the blood-stained earth, and gathered Jane up to him, resting her back against his bent knee. Her head lolled back on his thigh, exposing her throat, red and black with bruises. He pushed back the hood and the lopsided cap and the tangled hair from her face, searching desperately for any sign of life. He ripped off his bloody gloves, fumbling for a pulse.

"Is she dead?" whispered Pratt to Doggery.

The words broke something inside Tavington. A painful cry burst from him, and his shouted, "Breathe, Jane!" and pressed his mouth to hers, roughly tender, wanting her to take the very breath from him. Her lips were cold and dry under his, and he thought her dead. He pictured in an instant the horror of a world without Jane—no Jane again, ever- the children without a mother, himself alone. He clutched at her, squeezing her in his arms.

The sudden constriction made her gasp out. Jane was not quite conscious. Her eyes rolled back, and she mumbled an incoherent protest.

"Jane!" Tavington shouted in hope.

"--She's alive!"

"--Here, Will! Let's us get her into the carriage!"

"William!" she croaked out. Her vision was blurred. Her throat and head throbbed with excruciating pain. "—help…" She groped for her throat, still feeling the brutal hands choking her. Her head rolled, and the motion wrung a whimper from her.

"Jane," Tavington told her softly, "The man who attacked you is dead—no, don't look—he's dead. I'm going to carry you to the carriage and take you home." He slipped his arms underneath her and lifted her carefully. Her cloak and petticoat were thick with mud and slush, weighing her down.

"Don't—" she moaned, her head feeling like it would split open, "—hurts—"

"I know, my darling. I'm sorry."

Jane shut her eyes, unable to be completely quiet as she was laid on the floor of the carriage. She kept seeing the face of Dick Carver before her, smug and grinning, promising her horrors. She wondered if she were dying, and this was a last trick of the mind before her life was crushed out of her. Even if it were real, she felt as if she might die anyway. The wooden floor against her skull was unbearable, but moving it was unbearable, too. William was huddled next to her, and had lifted her head and rested it on the palm of his hand. That was a little better. From far away she heard John speaking to the servants.

"Pratt—stay here with the body. I'll be back as soon as we get Mrs. Tavington home. I'll bring some servants and we'll see if anyone knows this wretch. Here, Scoggins, I'll climb up there with you and Doggery. Try not to jostle her anymore than you can help."

The coach jolted, rolling up the lane to the Hall. Jane whimpered again. She opened her eyes and saw two Williams leaning over her. The double vision nearly caused her to vomit, and she shut her eyes tightly, whispering, "Don't let the children know." She licked her dry lips. "—too frightening. Promise?"

"I promise. We'll tell them you fell and hit your head. All right?'

It would be torture to nod. "Mmm," was her soft assent.

After a century of jolting in the carriage, they stopped, and the door opened. Servants crowded around, exclaiming and questioning. The noise made her head throb harder.

"Quiet!" Tavington commanded in the sort of low voice that cuts through a crowd. "Mrs. Tavington is hurt. I will carry her upstairs. Mrs. Carter—go up and tell Moll and Pullen that Mrs. Tavington has fallen and hurt her head. All of you! Please don't make so much noise—it pains her. Sir John will tell you the rest."

A hush fell over the servants, and eager hands reached out to help lift her petticoat out of the way as they climbed the staircase. Boots thumped hollowly on the oak staircase. John's rumbling voice faded as Jane felt herself traveling upstairs, carried without a jar.

Moll's voice, a blessed reassurance, made her relax a little more. "Don't sit her up!" Moll growled. "Twill make her puke! Hold her flat and we'll get the clothes off her."

Her cloak was unfastened and dropped away. Likewise her boots and stockings, and her cap, twisted to the side, the pins scratching her scalp. She recognized the sound of Pullen's soft breathing, and a hiss of sympathy when a tangle of hair caught. Very carefully, the sodden, filthy petticoat was untied and slipped over her feet.

"Reckon we can put her on the bed now."

The pillow was almost soft against the sore skin stretched, it seemed, too tightly over her skull.

"Mrs. Tavington, ma'am," Moll breathed, "you in there?"

Jane managed a feeble smile. "Umm."

Moll asked Tavington, "What happened?"

Jane tugged on her sleeve. Moll leaned over to listen.

"Carver…"

Moll had to clap her hand over her mouth to keep from shouting. "Them Carvers! Was it them?"

Tavington looked at Moll in horrified understanding.

"Dick Carver," Jane whispered. "Brother's dead. So angry. Going to hang me. Had a rope. Don't tell the children…" Her throat hurt too much to speak more. She lay still, listening to bits of the conversation.

"That dirty son a bitch!" Moll snarled. "I should have blown his head off!"

"Shh!" Tavington warned her. "It's all right. I killed him."

The door opened, and Harriet came in, "I heard about the accident! What can I do to help?"

Tavington took her by the elbow and led her from the room, not wanting Jane to hear the story again.

"Please see to the children. Mrs. Tavington was attacked by one of the highwaymen who tried to rob her before. He tried to kill her, and choked her half to death. I came upon them and cut him down. She doesn't want the children to know and be frightened. Make certain that the nursemaids don't tell tales. Oh—and before you go to the nursery, find a manservant and send him after my brother. He is to tell him that the dead man's name is Dick Carver. Apparently the other robber died. The great question is how he came to be here on the estate, and why no one noticed him!"

Harriet nodded, wide-eyed, and hurried away. Tavington went back to the bedchamber to see to Jane.

----

Moll wanted her to rest, but not to sleep. Jane lay quiet under ministering hands that washed her face and bruised hands, that laid soothing poultices to her head and throat. Mrs. Carter brought up a cup of willow tea, and Moll agreed that Jane must drink it. It helped very much. An hour later, her head was sore but no longer throbbing. Jane begged Moll to see that the babies were all right, and insisted that she would suckle them at five o'clock, if they did not insist on it earlier.

"Are you sure, Jane?" Tavington asked softly. He was sitting on the bed beside her, holding her hand. "You don't have to do that anymore. We can find some village woman."

But that distressed her, and he stopped when he saw it was so.

"No, please. I need to be with them. I'm sure it will do me good. I thought I would never see my little Will again."

Tavington was silenced, fighting against the dreadful vision of Jane's pitiful dead body being cut down from an overhanging branch. So close, so close…

_Too close._ Jane had felt safe, and evidently had not been carrying her pistol. He had not liked it when he had learned of her weapon, but he would urge her to carry it whenever she left the house from now on. Thank God he had missed her and the boys and had talked John into leaving a day earlier. Had Carver been watching for his chance? How was it possible? There was no proper inn down in the village—only a tiny public house. Who would have taken such a wretch into their home?

_Anyone who needed money,_ he admitted to himself. It likely had been done in good faith, thinking no harm.

It was a very quiet afternoon. Harriet looked in a few times to assure Jane that the children were happy and occupied and had had a good dinner, Tavington read some genial trifles from _The Spectator. _Broth was brought in for Jane and some sandwiches for Tavington. A little before five the babies grew hungry, and were brought in to be nursed. Rose carried William in, looking at her mistress with terrified sympathy.

Jane saw her face, and assured her, "I'm much better now, Rose. I shall be quite myself by tomorrow."

"But think of it, ma'am! That villain, right here under our noses! I'll hardly dare walk out alone!"

"He's dead," Tavington said firmly. "Let me help you with the children."

It was difficult, managing two active, squirming baby boys, and Jane suffered some unpleasant prodding and jostling, but the boys were kissed and fed, and Jane asked to see Ashbury.

The little boy came in shyly, and wanted to climb up on the bed to see Jane. Tavington picked him up and set him down, with a stern admonition not to be rough with his sister.

"Did you fal'down?" Ash asked, wanting to see under the bandage around her neck and the thicker one padding her head.

"Yes, Ash. I fell down and hurt myself, but I'll be better soon."

"You sood be ca'ful. Don't you run too fast, Sissah Jane."

"I'll be very careful. I'll try never to run that fast again."

"Sood I make it better?"

Jane smiled as Ash solemnly placed a soft kiss on each her bandages. She asked Tavington to find one of the children's books she had bought in Chelmsford, and read to Ash out of a book of La Fontaine's _Fables,_ translated from the French. Ash liked the illustrations, and wanted more. Tavington held the little boy close on his knee and read to him a little longer, while Jane shut her eyes and rested. Then she kissed Ash again, and Rose led him upstairs to join the other children at play.

There was a soft knock at the door. A maid peeped in, whispering, "If you please, sir. Sir John has returned, and he wishes to speak with you in the library."

Tavington asked Jane, "Will you be all right if I go down to him?"

"Yes. I'm much better. Do go down. Perhaps your brother has news."

Tavington kissed her carefully, and nodded gravely to Moll. _Now what has John found out?_

It had grown dark, and shadows were pressing into the corners. The wind had picked up and rattled the windows as Tavington went to find his brother.

Sir John was standing in front of the fire, looking grave. In his hand was a crumpled piece of paper. He handed it to Tavington. "It was in the brute's pocket."

"But this—" Tavington looked again, and a cold chill rushed up the back of his neck. John nodded.

It was a crude map that showed the carriage lane from the Hall to the nearest buildings: the church, vicarage, the steward's house. Wargrave was shown as a floorplan with notes. Not surprising was the remark about the silver in the dining room. But there were others. A room was circled: "1st floor—nursery. " An arrow pointed the way to Jane's room. _Why would a robber want to know how to find the nursery?_ He stood staring at the paper, imagining all sorts of things. The silence lengthened.

Then John said, "Look at the handwriting."

Tavington looked, and then screamed, "I'll kill him!"

"Will!" John gripped his brother's arm. "I went to Porter's house. The family hired a carriage to go visit the shops in Chelmsford early this morning. I questioned the servants. The man had been staying with them for some time. They knew him by another name, as the cousin of Mr. Porter. It seems to be a case of villains with a grievance plotting together. I sent Pratt and two others to Chelmsford to look for the Porters. They told the servants they would be back in the afternoon, but there is no sign of them. That is all that can be done for now."

"They said they were going to Chelmsford. Is it possible they did not know his plans?"

"Well—" John glanced uneasily at his brother. "A number of things are missing from the Porters' house. It's—possible—that they have fled."

Overwhelmed, Tavington sank into a chair, his head in his hands. "Oh, John."

"I'm more sorry than I can say, old fellow. You were right about them and I was wrong. I should never have given the fellow a second chance."

"I'll hunt them down."

"You'll do no such thing! You cannot leave your wife, and I must take Mrs. Bordon to London the day after tomorrow! We'll do what we can, but your first duty is here!"

Tavington nodded, miserably. The thought that Porter might actually get away with this vicious scheme made him physically ill. He swallowed, and smoothed out Porter's map. "At least we have evidence, if he is caught. What shall I say to Jane? That those people were planning to murder her while she was giving sweets to their children?"

John shook his head. "I find it hard to believe that Mrs. Porter was a party to this. Who knows how she and her children were threatened? Porter's disgrace was an open secret. Carver would have sought him out, and the two of them made use of each other: Carver, to have a place to stay and intelligence of your wife's movements, and Porter, to have the distraction of the attack to give him a chance of escape. I'm glad Carver is dead, but it's too bad we can never get the whole story from him. I told Pratt to send word as soon as he knew anything of the Porters' movements."

-----

Jane was up and about to a limited degree the following day, playing with the children and administering the household. It seemed especially important, since Harriet would be leaving the following day for her trip to London. Tavington told her he would stay, and Jane was very grateful. She made a show of fearlessness, but she felt unbalanced and frightened: a place she had thought safe was not so. The puppet plays, once so innocent, now seemed dark and ominous. A woman she had gone out of her way to treat with kindness had been involved in an attempt on her life. The feeling of betrayal cut deep. She wondered if she would ever again want to court the company of someone outside their circle of trusted family and friends. The high winds continued through the day, and she shrank from every creak and groan in the house. She confided her regrets to Moll.

"If I had even had Rambler with me, I might have fared better! I was a fool to go out without a pistol."

Moll did not dismiss these second thoughts, but pointed out that Carver was gone, and the Porters were gone, and there was no one else in England who could be described as an enemy.

"'Sides, folks will be careful for years after this! Closing the barn door after the horse gets away, of course, but they'll be looking out for you, and no mistake!"

Late that afternoon, a rider with a message from Pratt arrived, half blown in the door by the sharp north wind. John read it quickly, and slapped his thigh.

"They were in Chelmsford, right enough. The landlord of the King's Arms gave them a breakfast, and then a two-horse chaise arrived, and Porter drove it himself. Didn't say where they were going, but they headed east, toward Maldon. Pratt has gone after them, to see if they have hired a boat."

"But that's madness! A boat at this time of year? With a woman and children? I would have thought he would have headed to London, or further south, to make a short Channel crossing."

"A desperate fellow," John shrugged. "There is nothing to be done, Will. I cannot let Mrs. Bordon go to London unescorted, and you cannot go haring after the fellow, when Mrs. Tavington has had such a shock. I'd like to see the man punished, but we may have to leave him to Heaven."

Tavington slouched in the deep leather chair, glowering. The cat came up to him, and looked at him with great green eyes. Tavington condescended to stroke a silken ear, and listened to the rising wind, hoping that Heaven was listening.

-----

**Note:** For Moll and Tom to be legally married, the impending marriage must be announced in church on three succeeding Sundays ("publishing the banns"). Thus, if the banns are first published on Sunday, January 13th (the first Sunday after Bordon's return, Moll can be married no earlier than Monday, January 28th, anyway. Very rich people, like Lord Fanshawe, could hasten the process by buying a special license from the Archbishop of Canterbury.

**Next—Chapter 52: The Vicar of Wargrave Cross **


	52. The Vicar of Wargrave Cross

**Chapter 52: The Vicar of Wargrave Cross **

The newly-ordained vicar of Wargrave Cross arrived on the Monday after Epiphany rather early. He arrived in state, riding in his own chaise with his lady, and accompanied by his patron, Sir John Tavington. The Tavington coach followed behind, loaded with such articles as had caught Bordon's eye during the busy days of Christmas. Harriet had done much already to prepare the house for habitation, and a cook, three maids, and two menservants were already on the premises, awaiting their new family.

Bordon insisted on moving into the vicarage directly, and the Tavington coach was emptied of crates and trunks and boxes and baskets. Harriet anxiously supervised the placing of her new pianoforte in the drawing room—the first pianoforte ever in the village of Wargrave Cross. She was enchanted with the instrument; and it had been stored prior to its journey in the morning room of Number Twelve, Mortimer Place, to the fascination and delight of the Tavington sisters. A sofa covered with a floral brocade calculated to withstand the depredations of young children was placed facing the instrument, and Harriet sighed with happiness at the good effect. Her husband had surprised her with a little escritoire and chair. There were two lovely paintings of country scenes, and a new breakfast set, and a crate of books, and a few new toys for the upstairs nursery. It bade fair to be the home of their dreams.

Once that was done, the party went on to Wargrave Hall, to receive the greeting and congratulations of Tavington and Jane, to have a late breakfast, and to collect Robin and Susan for the carriage ride back to their own home.

"But I want go see!" Ash complained as the Bordons drove away.

"Not yet, Ash," Jane said gently, restraining him. "We'll let them settle in, and then we'll visit tomorrow. Give them a big wave!"

He pouted, and Jane was relieved he did nothing worse. They had managed to convince him that he would indeed see Robin and Susan and Mamma Bordon and the "Cap'n" again. How he would react to a trip to London, out of daily reach of his friends, was something that concerned Jane a little. A little more time was needed, to get him used to the idea that his home was with Jane and the Colonel and the babies. The Bordons' coach disappeared behind some trees, and Jane noted the number of Wargrave residents who were converging on the vicarage.

The villagers had been curious about Bordon since glimpsing him briefly at Christmas. It was apparent from the first that he intended to run his parish with a strong and steady hand. The following Sunday would see the first services in the church in over a year, and the villagers and tenants would be calling on their vicar, wanting to plan weddings and christenings, wanting to reopen the school, wanting his advice and guidance for the Parish Relief—and some simply wanting to talk.

John had delivered some letters to Jane from Mrs. Tazewell and Bellini. Jane read them through with a smile, particularly enjoying Bellini's description of the court in Vienna and the high spirits of his friend Mozart. The Tavington coach had also contained a box for Jane.

Up in the dressing room, she looked through it and sighed. She was still not in perfect health. Pullen sturdily pulled up a chair and sat her in it, and exclaimed over the treasures in the box.

"It was very good of Miss Penelope to help with my mourning," Jane said, fingering yards of fragile black crape. "And a cloak!" she cried, surprised, pulling it out for a better look.

"Try it on at once, ma'am," Pullen urged her. "This is very fine!"

"I suppose," Jane agreed, "and I certainly needed a new cloak. It's rather gloomy, though." She stood and let Pullen arrange it on her shoulders. "I look quite Gothick."

"'Tis _mourning_, ma'am," Pullen said patiently. "Oh—and these gowns—"

Jane read the note pinned to them.

_"My dear, dear Jane, _

_John has told us of your horrible encounter with that monster. We are thinking of you, my dear, and pray for your recovery after such a shock. William had me order some clothing for you as soon as he returned on the 27th, and we told the modiste that it was a matter of some urgency. I fear the traveling habit is not yet finished, which vexed me greatly. I shall send it on as soon as it is done. The three gowns packed together are for your maidservants, when they attend you in public. I have labeled each one. Meanwhile, my dear, accept condolences from Caroline and me on the death of your honored father. We are so anxious for you, and long to see you and darling little William Francis very soon. Material goods cannot comfort a grieving heart, nor heal your injuries, but there is a satisfaction in knowing one can face the world with dignity and propriety, and thus we offer these tokens of our sincere affection." _

"Mourning gowns for you and Moll and Rose. They're quite—nice—in their way."

Pullen held her own gown up against her to look in the mirror. "Every respectable woman needs a black gown, ma'am. Miss Penelope chose quality stuff for these."

Jane read a little more of the note: _"I did not include mourning livery for Tom Young, as he is staying at Wargrave and can be considered more John's servant than yours. With your maids, however, it is best that we observe the proprieties. Dear William gave me a great deal of money and a free hand. Caro applied the black borders to the handkerchiefs herself. I hope you like the hat. I trimmed it myself with dyed ostrich plumes—" _

"It is here in the box below, ma'am." Pullen dug it out and opened it, very impressed, "Oh! That _is_ handsome, ma'am! Put it on, so we can see it together with the cloak."

"I look so pale, Pullen."

"I shall see to that, ma'am, never fear."

She lifted out large bundle carefully wrapped in paper. "What is this, I wonder?"

It was a black silk polonaise with a matching petticoat.

"How kind of her! I hope it fits!" cried Jane.

It was awkward to have no gown but her black bombazine, which was very much the worse for wear since the attack. It had been scrupulously cleaned, but it was fraying at the hems and sleeves, and even skillful mending could not quite disguise the signs of tearing at one of the shoulders, and a huge rent in the front of the skirt. Jane removed the hat, and threw off the cloak. Pullen helped her out of the bombazine, and then the new silk gown was donned: first the wide petticoat, and then the polonaise.

"May I puff it out, ma'am?"

"Yes, if you like. I think it's quite nice."

She put her hand on the bodice, watching Pullen's reflection busy with the hidden ties that could be loosened for a smooth look, or tied tightly to lift the skirt of the gown back in flounced puffs edged with black Venetian lace.

"Now that is something like!"

Jane thought so too, and finished Pen's letter:

_"William told me that there was to be a party on the Monday night after the Bordon's arrival, and he was anxious that you have a nice new dress, so we told the modiste to complete that, if nothing else. The mantua-maker finished the cloak very quickly. The trimming was Caro's thought. At least you shall be warm when you return to us. _

_Your affectionate sister, _

_Penelope Tavington"_

Despite her bruises, Jane wished to keep to Sir John's original plans to introduce Bordon to the neighborhood. The gown was a godsend: she had dreaded receiving the guests in her mended bombazine. There were to be the Bordons, the Spottiswoodes and the Hindleys, along with two other country families of long acquaintance, and she wanted to the evening to be pleasant for all. Since the houses were only a quarter of a mile apart, a servant could be sent in case of emergency.

It was a very pleasant party. Jane enjoyed meeting the new acquaintances. The Hindleys had a young daughter at school in London who was home for the Christmas holidays. At sixteen, Christabel Hindley was not exactly out, but she was certainly old enough for an intimate dinner party in the country. Jane was sorry that there was no boy or girl of similar age to provide company for her. The Spottiswoodes had never had children. Of the two new families, the Blandings' children were too young to attend, and while Mr. and Mrs. Charteris had sons, they were half a world away, one in the Royal Navy, and the other in the East India Company. The Hindleys' two other children, both older daughters, were already married and lived too far away for frequent visits.

A major topic of conversation, unavoidably, was Carver's attack and the Porters' flight. The steward and his family had been tracked to Maldon, where they had hired a small fishing boat. Whither they had sailed, however, was a mystery. A coroner's hearing was yet to be held on the death of Carver, but its verdict was obvious to all.

Jane, when applied to for the details of the attack, knew that there was no help for it. "Very well. I shall tell you all, and then I would prefer not to speak of it again. It was very alarming, and had the Colonel not come a day early, I might very well have been murdered. But I wasn't. I have learned, however, never to walk abroad alone without my pistol."

"You have a _pistol_?" asked Miss Hindley, awestruck.

"Oh, yes. I bought one in South Carolina. We were all in great danger with the war raging around us. I wish I had had it with me that day, but I did not. It apparent that the Porters and Carver conspired together to take revenge on the Tavington family. The Porters sheltered Carver and gave him intelligence about the Hall and about my movements. In return, Carver's crime would distract everyone from the Porters' flight."

She recounted the story of meeting Carver in the lane, much edited to spare her own feelings and those of the rest of the party. It was not something she could make light of, but she did not care to repeat his ugliest threats or exactly describe how it had felt to be choked nearly to death.

What she said was quite enough for the assembled party, however. Miss Hindley was impressed at Jane for daring to hit the man, even with a stick.

"How could you be so brave?" she wondered. "I should have fainted! I should have died of fright!"

She was very young, and a guest, and Jane did not speak her full mind to her. Her conscience, however, could not allow her to pass over it in silence. "My dear, fainting is all very well when one is surrounded by friends, but when one is in real danger, fainting merely makes it easier for the enemy. It's much better for a woman to keep her wits about her."

"Better for _anyone_," agreed Bordon, with a smile.

"I pray they are caught and brought to justice!" cried Mrs. Blanding, very indignantly. "It makes one afraid to sleep in one's bed at night!"

Tavington's eyes glittered with the memory. "Carver will threaten no one else, Madam. I saw to that."

"And so, you see, there is nothing more to be said, unless the Porters come to light," Jane declared cheerfully. "May I help you to more custard, Mrs. Spottiswoode? Just a little?"

At length the ladies withdrew, and the men settled down to some wine and further talk about the pursuit of the Porters.

"I've had their description printed and sent everywhere along the coast, and have offered a reward of fifty pounds for their capture, " John told them. "It's maddening, to think that the wretches may escape. One tries to be generous and fair-minded, and to have it all thrown in my face is intolerable. And then to plot to harm Mrs. Tavington! Hanging is too good for the man."

Dr. Spottiswoode shook his head. "I feel sorry for the children. They must discover his villainy eventually. How they will suffer, poor little creatures."

"If they're still alive," Bordon remarked. His rough journey from America was still fresh in his mind. There was a little puddle of spilled wine on the table. He ran his finger through it, reflecting on all the things that could happen to a family at the mercy of the elements. "Putting out to sea in a small boat in bad weather with a woman and four young children was insane. There's a good chance that the lot of them were drowned."

"Dreadful, dreadful," was the Reverend Mr. Hindley's doleful contribution. "Such shocking ingratitude."

The conversation moved on to the repairs to Wargrave, to the remarkable efforts of Mrs. Tavington, to the phaeton that Sir John had ordered built, and finally to the wonderful plentitude of game they had all enjoyed in the past few months.

Another bottle was opened and passed around the table. Tavington caught Bordon's eyes, feeling a little tired of local gossip. John was not so far gone in drink that he did not notice it, and then urged the two soldiers to talk about their adventures in America.

Tavington was at once unleashed to talk about his favorite hobby-horse: the sufferings of the Loyalists in the colonies, and how the peace would ruin them. Bordon supported him, by telling of the courage and resourcefulness of their soldiers, and the faithfulness of the wives who had shared their dangers. The company was willing to hear a few tales of adventure, and so Tavington told the story of brave Corporal O'Lavery, and how he had saved the dispatches by hiding them in his wound.

Mr. Charteris, who had never traveled beyond London, but who had read many books, then asked eagerly, "In all your travels, have either of you ever seen an actual Red Indian?"

Dumbfounded, Tavington and Bordon stared blankly at each other. Bordon, for all his tact, could not quite keep from smiling, and Tavington, out of respect for his brother's guest, refrained from laughing out loud.

Bordon cleared his throat, and answered gravely, "Yes, we have known many, of many different tribes. Most recently, in South Carolina, the Cherokees were excellent scouts, and very loyal to the Crown. It is a pity that the rebels will no doubt take a cruel revenge of them for it. One man in particular, Wolf Claw, was a clever tracker, and was of great service to us."

"Do you speak their language? How did you communicate with the savages?"

Tavington felt for Bordon, knowing how sympathetic his former captain was to the situation of the native tribes. He had made many friends among them in his years in America, and did not like to hear them described as "savages."

"A great many of them speak the King's English quite well. There are many different tribes, to be sure," Bordon explained. "--Many different languages and customs. Different tribes vary as much as different nations here in Europe. Some have customs we might describe as savage, but they might regard our use of the pillory, or the stocks, or the lash, or the gallows—or above all, imprisonment-- as equally so."

"'Custom is King,'" quoted Dr. Spottiswoode, nodding sagely.

"Just so," agreed Bordon. "What I did find among them of more moment, was courage and honor, great resolution and endurance in the face of hardship, and immense love and respect for Nature in all its forms. They, too, ponder their place in the universe and consider the nature of God—the Great Spirit. Some of their lore is surprisingly similar to ours. For example, from the Mohawks I discovered that the constellation of Ursa Major—the Great Bear—is also called the Bear amongst them."

There was some astonished amusement, and Bordon continued. "Yes—it is quite so. I was talking with Tatotaho, a good fellow and friend one night as we lay on the ground looking up at the stars, and he told me that the four stars that form a rough rectangle, they call the Bear, and that the stars we call the Bear's tail, they call warriors. The closest warrior is the brave one, reading to hunt the bear, the one behind—which if you look closely is actually two stars—is a warrior with a pot ready to cook the bear; and the farthest is a cowardly warrior hanging back!"

More laughter: and John, seizing the moment, suggested that they not hang back from the ladies, who must impatient for them. They strolled together through the Great Hall, talking about savages and astronomy, about the war and horses. Music already drifted out of the drawing room, where Jane and Harriet were practicing a duet that Jane had laboriously transcribed from a copy belonging to Miss Gilpin. The men crowded in, finding seats, and applauded when the ladies ended their sonata with two final chords, played very nicely together.

"Already started the entertainments without us!" said John," I call that positively cruel!"

"We must do something while we're waiting for you, Sir John, or we'd all be sound asleep when you arrived," Jane shot back with a smile.

"Ha! Well, well—oh, and here is the tea! I tell you, Blandings—"

"—Yes, with two, Mrs. Tavington. I thank you—"

"—It seems to me, Bordon, that a book of those old Indian tales would be well received—"

"—I have heard that her sister, Lady Fanshawe, has a most beautiful voice. We must hope to hear her sing someday—"

"—Lady Fanshawe? Is she married to—_that_—Lord Fanshawe?—"

"—Mrs. Bordon, was this your first journey to England?—"

"—Her little brothers? Their mother abandoned them? How shocking!—"

After a quarter-hour of such conversation, Jane thought her youngest guest looked a little bored, and beckoned her over with a smile.

"Miss Hindley, now that the gentlemen are here, I was wondering if you cared to perform for us? You mother told me you are quite musical."

The girl looked pleased and nervous. "Oh! But you and Mrs. Bordon are so accomplished! I couldn't—"

Jane touched her hand reassuringly. "I do not mean to make you feel uneasy, but I assure you that you will find this a friendly audience, and good practice for the future. Everyone loves music. Why don't you start something you like very much and know very well?"

Her mother was looking encouragingly at her, so the girl seemed inclined to agree.

Mrs. Hindley said meaningly, "You _ought_ to play for Sir John, my dear Christabel. You _owe_ it to our kind host!"

Jane became aware of a certain message beneath the words, as the mother nearly glared at her daughter, and the daughter shrank beneath her mother's piercing eyes. _Oh, my! What is this? Does Mrs. Hindley wish her daughter to set her cap at John? He is over twenty-five years her senior! Of course, my sister married a man nearly fifty years older than she. I suppose I cannot blame the woman for trying. A pleasant man and Wargrave Hall to be won_.

Miss Hindley was pretty enough in an understated way, very much an English Rose, with shining brown hair and soft blue eyes. Their guests could not know that John was as good as engaged to the absent Mrs. Martingale. Jane decided she would simply keep an eye on things to prevent the girl's feelings being hurt.

Miss Hindley snatched up her music from a table and fidgeted into the chair at the harpsichord.

Jane announced, "Oh! How kind! If you please, everyone, Miss Hindley is going to perform for us!"

The noise of conversation quieted. Jane gave her husband and his brother a reproachful look, and they broke off their talk, subsiding back politely into their chairs. The girl took a deep breath, and began the chords of a popular air by Haydn. She had a very schoolgirlish manner, but her playing was accurate, if a little stiff.

In a high, sweet voice she sang:

_"She never told her love, _

_She never told her love, _

_But let Concealment, _

_Like a worm in the bud, _

_Feed on her damask cheek. _

_She sat like Patience on a Monument. _

_Smiling, smiling at Grief." _

Everyone applauded, her parents loudest of all.

Jane added her own praise, "That was delightful! Will you not sing another, Miss Hindley?"

The girl blushed, and with an air of _"in for a penny, in for a pound,_ " she plunged into another song at once. Jane looked around the room, satisfied that everyone seemed to be having a pleasant time.

After Miss Hindley finished and was thanked, Jane moved people to some card tables, for John really wanted to play tonight, though for modest stakes. He would play at whist with the Spottiswoodes and Harriet, and the rest of the party was gathered around to play Speculation, with Tavington in charge of the proceedings.

"I must excuse myself for a little while," Jane explained, "and see to the children upstairs. I shall join you again shortly." As she left, she heard a few whispers.

"---Suckles her child herself, I heard," said Mrs. Blandings. "Very dutiful, but rather she than I! I tried it, and—"

"---Such a pleasant lady," remarked Mr. Charteris to Bordon. "A shame about that villain—"

"The pleasant lady" was glad to have a respite. She liked the guests, but she felt a headache coming on, and was gloomily aware that she had taken on a little too much this evening. She went up to the nursery, wanting some peace in Moll's company. She first went to the second floor, to see Ashbury peacefully asleep in his little bed. Rose was staying up there with him, and she looked up with a smile, sewing by candlelight. Jane pressed a kiss to her little brother's brow. The boy stirred, and grimaced in his sleep. Jane touched his shining hair, and then glided silently out of the room.

Downstairs, the babies were restless, wanting some milk before bedtime. Pullen was summoned, and helped Jane remove her gown and petticoat before putting them to the breast. She could hardly return to her guests covered in spit-up milk. It was arranged very expeditiously, despite Tom's tendency to babble adorably at her.

"He'll be talking before you know it!" Moll beamed. "Then he'll probably never stop."

Baby Will looked up at her, lifting his brows in the funny way he had. It always made Jane laugh. She settled back into the chair and shut her eyes.

"Are you feeling all right, ma'am?"

"Yes, I'm just tired. So much noise!"

Pullen laid her hand over Jane's brow for a moment. "At least you're not feverish, ma'am. That's a mercy! Let me bring you some more of that willow tea. Don't you think that a good idea, Mrs. Royston?"

"That I do, Miss Pullen. Here, ma'am, we can brew it up right quick. You've a heap more evening before you."

Jane enjoyed being pampered, and her half-hour of nursing and tea-sipping passed too quickly. She laughed again, as the babies wriggled and grinned with the pleasure of full little bellies. She felt much better, as Pullen helped her into the gown once more, and Moll settled the babies to sleep.

By the time she returned to the party, her headache was in remission, and the guests were discussing the possibility of some impromptu dancing.

"Why not?" considered Jane from the doorway, refreshed and smiling.

"Oh! Could we, Mrs. Tavington? I love dancing of all things!" cried Miss Hindley.

The footmen moved some furniture and rolled up the carpet. Jane headed to the harpsichord to provide the music, but was gently pushed aside by old Mrs. Spottiswoode, who seated her plump person before the instrument with a kind shake of the head.

"My dear Mrs. Tavington—dancing days may be over for the Doctor and me, but I can still play country dances for hours on end! Here, my love," she said to her husband, "do you sit down by me and watch the young ones enjoying themselves!"

The old parson was comfortably seated with a glass of port, and Jane very gratefully prepared to dance. Sir John invited Harriet, as their guest of honor, and Bordon claimed Jane. Tavington, understanding the look in Jane's eye, gently asked for the honor of Miss Hindley's company. The rest of the married couples paired up, and within a moment, Mrs. Spottiswoode was beginning an irresistible reel.

They danced for over an hour. Mrs. Spottiswoode had not exaggerated her encyclopaedic memory of popular dances. It was something Jane had not known or guessed about the grandmotherly woman, and she felt a touch of regret that she might soon be leaving the neighborhood. Partners were exchanged, the dancers moved from pattern to pattern, turning about, meeting a new face, hands together and apart, dipping under outstretched arms. Mrs. Hindley did attain her immediate goal, for John felt it his duty to dance with every lady guest, and thus he partnered Miss Hindley, who blushed ardently the entire time. Jane consoled herself that John had not paid any more attention to the girl than he had to anyone else, and could not therefore be accused of raising unfounded hopes.

Too soon, it was over, and they were bidding the guests goodnight. Harriet and Jane kissed each other very affectionately, and Jane promised to call the very next day to admire the additions to the vicarage. John found himself an unfinished bottle of wine and vanished into the library, with an earnest word of praise and thanks to Jane.

Tavington and Jane were left alone in the Great Hall. He brushed a stray curl from Jane's pale cheek. "It was a wonderful evening. I hope it was not too much for you."

"Oh, no," she answered. "I flagged a little in the middle, but time with the babies and a cup of willow tea set me up again. What lovely people! Your brother is fortunate in his neighbors. I am sorry the house was not in a condition to receive visitors before this. I liked them all quite well."

They headed slowly for the staircase, one arm of his about her shoulders, hers about his waist.

Tavington remarked, "You were very kind to that schoolgirl. What a bread-and-butter miss! She looked like she was about to burst a vein when she danced with John. What was that all about?"

He nodded to Young, who was supervising the clean-up. The butler gave Tavington a candle to light their way upstairs.

Jane lowered her voice. "I believe Mrs. Hindley had put a word in her daughter's ear about your brother. He _is_ the most eligible bachelor in these parts! I hope he announces his engagement soon, so the poor girl is not hounded too much by her mother."

"John and that little chit! What an idea!" He laughed and pulled Jane closer.

"You said you are leaving Monday next. I shall a great packet of letters for you to deliver when you go. When shall I see you again?" Jane asked.

"On Tuesday."

"Don't tease." She pinched him.

He pinched her back, and shook his head. "It's the simple truth. I shall stay over Sunday to hear Bordon's first sermon, and then you and I are going to London, my dear. Do not bother to write to your friends: you shall see them yourself soon enough. I'm not leaving you alone any more. Wargrave is doing very well now, and it can surely bear your absence. If John wants more done, he has time to see to it himself, or he can bestir himself and hire that housekeeper you suggested. When I return to London next Monday, I want you to come with me."

She was torn between sorrow at leaving Wargrave, and excitement at seeing London again. "Then the Carters' cottage must be put in order at once, and a pension arranged for them. I shall talk to John about it over breakfast. Mrs. Carter has suggested a cousin of hers—a middle-aged widow, who might do well as housekeeper. But what about the inoculations?"

"Finished. Two of the maids became quite sick, but are recovering. As soon as you are in London, I will send out that fellow Harris—the inoculator—to Wargrave to minister to the servants here."

"But we must return in three weeks. By that time, Mr. Bordon will have pronounced the banns at three Sunday services, and Moll and Tom can be married, as I promised them." She lowered her voice again. "It should not be put off any longer than that."

Tavington smiled, "She is with child? She must be very happy about that. Yes, I see no reason that we cannot return in three weeks. They can be married at the end of January. It is not as if Wargrave were in Yorkshire or parts north, after all. Since it is but a few hours, there is no reason not to make frequent visits."

They reached the top of the stairs, and Jane paused at the window, looking out at the grounds. The reflection of the candlelight shone back from the window, illuminating pale images of the two of them. In their mourning clothes, they looked rather ghostly.

"I confess," Jane said, "that I shall miss living at Wargrave, despite all that Carver and the Porters could do. I have enjoyed having a project such as this. It has given me such a feeling of accomplishment."

"And living with me and raising the children will not?"

"That is unfair. You must understand what I mean. You are gone much of the time, and the children are infants—even Ash. I love your sisters, but they have their own lives, too. I do not think I am the stuff of which a fine lady, living only for fashion and expense, is made."

"No, and I thank God for it!" laughed Tavington.

He took her hand, and led her toward their bedchamber. It was very dark at the top of the stairs, and a slight draught whispered down the gallery. Tavington had to let go of Jane and shelter the sputtering candle with his hand. The feeble light of another candle revealed Doggery asleep by the door. Jane glided past him and opened to door to their room, which was warm and ruddy with firelight. Pullen came out to meet her, and they departed to the dressing room to prepare Jane for the night.

"Did you have a pleasant party, ma'am?"

"Yes, very nice, Pullen. Thank you thinking of the tea: I should not have enjoyed the dancing much without it."

They went through the ritual of disrobing. The polonaise, the petticoat, the pockets, the underpetticoat, the cork rump, the stays, the high-heeled slippers, the garters, the silk stockings, the jewelry. Jane rubbed her sore feet, glad she would be off them for the next few hours. Pullen unpinned her hair, and brushed it very gently, careful of the side of the Jane's head that was still bruised. The cosmetics were carefully wiped away. Jane washed and finished all her preparations, and Pullen set a pretty nightcap on her head. Jane took another look in the mirror, and saw a tired woman.

"Off to bed with you too, Pullen. Tomorrow we shall begin work on some new projects, now that the holidays are over at last. Stay—Pullen—how would you feel about a return to London? The Colonel was speaking of it."

"My place is with you, ma'am. Whether here or in London makes no difference to me."

"Really? I thought perhaps you liked it very much here—"

"Aye, ma'am, I like it here very well. I've enjoyed my little room and all the great doings, but I always knew we would be in London at last. Shall we be going to the old house, then?"

"Yes. I am told things are—quite different—there, since Lady Cecily is ill and confined to her room. It appears that I shall be rather the mistress there, as well."

Pullen nodded thoughtfully. "'Tis a very fine house. It will be a pleasure for you to do with it as you've done here. I hope your habit comes before we leave."

Jane had not thought of that. "I hope so, too!"

After a quiet "goodnight," Jane passed into the bedchamber. Doggery was long gone, and William was already in bed, awaiting her. Sitting up, he kissed her as she climbed in beside him, and promptly tugged off her shift.

"I like to feel your skin against me. Much nicer than linen. Do you want some _Fanny Hill_ tonight?"

She considered, and then snuggled closer. "I don't think I need it. Here, yes, put your hand there."

They kissed, long and slow. Tavington whispered, "I was very proud of you tonight. You are such a charming hostess. You saw that everyone was cared for and considered. We shall be so happy together in London."

"I feel quite happy at the moment. Oh!"

His impatient fingers prepared her, awakening her. She touched him lightly in her turn, following the lines of muscle and sinew, shivering as the soft hair of his belly tickled her. She took hold of him, feeling his blood pulse. They played for a little while, watching the other for perfect moment. A soft grunt as he maneuvered her beneath him, and they were joined and moving together.

"Rather like dancing," Jane said with a little moan. He slid his arms around her and held her fast.

"Rather better than dancing," he growled, "Or rather, dancing is a pale reflection of _this." _

There was no reason not to take all the time they wanted. Jane's consciousness narrowed to the feeling between her legs, shivers of delight radiating through her thighs, settling in her belly. Tavington's face was closed and intent, completely focused on the sensation of the moment. Jane dug her hands behind her, into the pillow, as she exploded into little broken shards of joy.

The moment lasted, and lasted, nearly crossing the border into pain, and then she was past it and in a world of silence and peace. Tavington took a long, deep breath, utterly spent. He shrugged Jane's lax legs away, and rolled to the side, one arm resting lazily over her. His mind was a happy blank, only gradually returning to thoughts and plans. It seemed more trouble than it was worth to make himself speak.

Eventually, his brain cleared, and he could pursue his original idea. "Jane?"

"Ummm."

"Are you asleep?"

"No." She ran her fingers through his hair, curling it around her fingers. "No. I feel very relaxed, that's all. We _should_ sleep, though. I have so much to do tomorrow."

"The devil take that. You should sleep late. Perhaps we might have a bath."

"A bath would be nice. But really, William, I do have things to do. I must get up at seven to feed the babies, and I promised Harriet a visit tomorrow."

"We shall all call. I want to see the vicarage filled with Bordons, too. We shall take Ash, and let him play with his friends."

"Are you serious about taking me back to London?"

"Of course I am. I'm tired of not living with you. I do understand your attachment to Wargrave, and it does you credit, but your work here is mostly done. You may not see it yet, but London really can offer you more. You want to make your mark in society, but not in the common way. Very well: I have a proposal for you, which might satisfy you for a few months at least. I have gone back to work on my memoirs: would like you to work with me?"

Jane woke up a little more, and looked at him keenly, surprised and flattered. "Work with you? In what capacity?"

"Let's see—as my secretary, my amanuensis, my editor, my proof-reader, my extra memory, and my conscience. I wish to get these memoirs in order and published by the spring."

"You do not want to wait until the war is utterly at an end?"

"No! I want to keep the issue before the public and try to raise some sympathy for my men when it can do them good! I lost all my papers at the Cowpens, but I've reconstructed a great deal from memory. As soon as I meet with Rawdon, I'll ask if he has copies of dispatches and battle orders."

"He is in England? I am glad to hear it."

"Yes—so I heard. He'll be in London in a week or two. You can give a dinner party for him! We must plan around the King's movements, however. On the twenty-first, I and the rest of the 3rd Dragoon Guards must go to Windsor, and accompany the King back to London. There will be quite a spectacle, and a grand review of the troops, featuring Colonel William Tavington in his latest role as a toy soldier."

"A very handsome toy soldier," she whispered, cuddling against his side, at the precarious edge of sleep. "My own toy soldier."

-----

Ashbury was excited about seeing the vicarage. It was not too cold, and so they decided to walk, with Tavington carrying his tiny brother-in-law most of the way. Jane had not been out of the house since she was attacked, and was happy to have a strong man on either side of her when she passed the place she nearly died. Her companions looked at her anxiously, but Jane smiled and walked sturdily along. Her silk petticoat rustled under her mourning cloak. At least she was not wearing the same clothes. They were greeted as best friends, and shown into the warm, sprawling house. Harriet glowed as she led Jane into the drawing room, now very much her own.

"Oh! A pianoforte! You did not tell me!"

"I wanted it to be a surprise."

"Oh, do let me play it before I go. I have never played one. How is the touch?"

The men enjoyed her enthusiasm, and Ashbury demanded a hug and kiss from Harriet, returning each very energetically. Robin and Susan greeted the guests as well, and then were excused up to the nursery, where they and the kind-hearted Betty could show the little visitor the glories of their new domain.

The guests were briefly shown the study. Bordon had much to say about the last resident's historical notes.

"Sir John mentioned the old gentleman's interest in local lore. He made some fascinating discoveries. It's a great pity he never published. I may well take up his work, but of course I would give him proper credit!"

They settled comfortably in the drawing room, the men discussing further explorations of the Hill and the Barrows, and the women trying out the new instrument. Jane was invited to sit and play for them.

"How different the sound is! More percussive, somehow. I like it, but it is so entirely different."

Harriet sat down with her, and the two of them began their favorite duet, commenting throughout the piece at the changed tonal quality. They had nearly reached the end, when the Bordons' manservant appeared, with a message for Sir John.

"Beg pardon, but a fellow rode in fast, wanting a word. It's your valet, sir, come with news." This quite stopped all conversation.

"Pratt, it's you then? Come in, man!"

Pratt then appeared, looking very tired. His clothes were travel-stained, and the man himself looked smaller. Jane wondered if he had had enough to eat, while searching for the fugitives.

"Well, what it is" John demanded. "Are the Porters caught, then?"

The valet was grim. "After a fashion, sir. At least they've got one of them, up there in Clacton Gaol. There's a fellow who'll be wanting the reward."

"Only one of them! What's become of the rest?"

"Drowned, sir. Drowned dead. They set out in that high wind, and the boat capsized. Spilled them out in the cold water, and only one was saved. No bodies, neither."

Bordon looked away, sickened to hear that his own worst imaginings were fact. Harriet bit her lip and caught Jane's cold hand in hers.

"Was it Porter?" John asked angrily. "I'll wager that wretch would save himself first."

"No, sir. Not the man. He went to save his little boy and they both went under, I'm told. No, 'twas the oldest girl they found clinging to the bottom of the boat, half-dead. She gave her name, and yesterday they heard about the reward and hauled her off to gaol proper quick. The magistrate's considering what to charge her for, right now."

Jane burst out, "Deborah! They locked away that little girl! How horrible! She is but ten years old! Who knows what kind of men she is among? I must go at once!" She started forward, hardly thinking about what she would do, when Tavington seized her wrist in an iron grip.

"You'll do nothing of the sort," he hissed. "I forbid it!"

* * *

**Note:** If you ever take a look at the Big Dipper (which is really only a part of Ursa Major) look carefully at the handle of the dipper. At the bend is the middle star. Careful observation reveals that it is a double star (Mizar and Alcor). Hence the Indian with the pot. Amaze your friends with your star lore! 

Thank you to all my reviewers. I really like reviews. Please take the time. It is my prize for writing and really encourages me.

**Next—Chapter 53: A Forgiving Nature **


	53. A Forgiving Nature

**Chapter 53: A Forgiving Nature **

He had made her angry again. Jane paced the floor of the Bordons' drawing room, terribly put out with her husband. Tavington had absolutely forbidden her to go to the aid of little Deborah Porter. They nearly quarreled in front of everyone, until Harriet Bordon, and then Bordon himself had intervened, and had given sound, rational arguments as to why Mrs. Tavington could be gone for two days from the children who depended upon her.

It was his tone: his hectoring, preemptory, "I am the Colonel' tone that had rankled. Furthermore, his dismissal of the girl's fate had seemed heartlessly cruel. Porter might have been a cheat and a villain, but the children—and probably, to some extent, Mrs. Porter—had been as much his victims as the Tavingtons. John was easier to move. Bitter and betrayed as he was, it was easier to make him see that they had a responsibility to the child.

Finally Bordon settled the matter. "I shall go. Yes, Mrs. Tavington, I shall go at once. My dear Harriet, ring and have the carriage sent round while I dress a little more warmly. I can be at Clacton in what--?"

"Three—no, nearly four hours," John allowed.

"Very well. I shall go and fetch the child. Expect me back early tomorrow"

Tavington snarled, "I won't share a roof with any of that man's get!"

Harriet tried to soothe him. "No, of course not, Colonel. No one expects it. The child can stay here a time, or with some respectable woman, until some sort of arrangement is made for her."

"I should go, too," John growled. "I daresay I shall have to pay the reward, and assure the magistrate that I am not pressing charges against the girl. It's too ridiculous. Besides, something may have been salvaged from the shipwreck. Porter owed me three thousand pounds. I daresay he had at least some of it with him. It would do no harm to ask." He eyed his weary servant. "Sorry, Pratt. I can see you're tired."

Harriet said, "He needs something to eat. Pratt, go to the kitchen, and Mrs. Arden will take care of you. It will be at least an hour before you can set out. I'll have Mrs. Arden pack a hamper for you all as well. Who knows when you will be able to dine?" Thinking a little more, she asked if any of the Porters' possessions remained at their house."The girl will need fresh clothing, certainly."

John grumbled, but gave a maidservant a key, and orders to look through the steward's house for anything a ten-year-old girl could wear. He flung himself into a chair, glowering. Harriet sighed, and ordered tea for everyone, and some substantial sandwiches to give the gentlemen strength on their journey.

Tavington leaned over and asked John quietly, "Do you have enough money on your person?"

"Eh? Oh, yes, plenty of money—it's just—damn it, Will! The man killed his family as surely as if he had taken an axe to them! That poor woman. Should I have done things differently? Perhaps if I had prosecuted the man, the rest of them would be alive."

Overhearing, Jane said fiercely, "It's not your fault! You were merciful and it's not your doing that the man was a fool and villain. I'm certainly not going to blame myself that his confederate attacked me. None of this is the child's fault either," she added, glaring at Tavington, who scowled back. "Let keep sight of whose fault this is!"

After a little more consultation, it was acknowledged that a woman should go along to care for the little girl. The Porters' old maidservant was found and hustled into the coach, which set off just a little before the hour was up. Tavington saw them off and drank a final cup of tea in silence, not understanding how Jane could care about the fate of an enemy's child. In South Carolina, children could be as dangerous as their parents. You never knew when one of the little bastards might be carrying a pistol or a knife. A sense of grievance could lead to a blood feud. _It could be worse. At least the child is a girl. Perhaps that is why Jane can be so magnanimous. _

He kept his temper with difficulty. He did not want to quarrel with Jane—not when she had been so kind to him and to little Thomas, not when he had nearly lost her in such a horrible way. He sighed, looking through the bare trees to Wargrave. Jane was very brave—and not just for a woman—but she didn't have a soldier's way of looking at things. Military justice was harsh, but necessary. Even very young soldiers were subject to the same punishments as veterans. Even little children suffered when their elders fought. _Life is a battlefield. It is the natural order of things. I daresay it is hard for Jane to accept. She's much too soft-hearted. _

Jane and Harriet talked quietly about the children. It was very calming to Jane, who could not understand how William could be so unfeeling to an orphaned child. If being a soldier had made him so hard-hearted, perhaps it might be best if William sold his commission and devoted himself to his literary pursuits. He would be home all the time, then. _Yes, that's a nice idea. Being an officer is so expensive, anyway. Half of his wages at least must go to uniforms and horses and mess fees and the like. We could live well enough without it. He is so dissatisfied with the conduct of the war. Perhaps he could express himself more freely if he were not in the King's service_.

After another half-hour, Jane felt they were calm enough to go home together peaceably. The servant was sent for Ash, who promptly hid under the bed, not wanting to stop playing with his friends. Betty hauled him out by his small feet, kicking and screaming, amidst the complaints of Robin and Susan. The howls trailed down the stairs, and did not improve Tavington's temper. Seeing how irritated he was, Jane took Ash in her arms and kissed him.

"Tomorrow, if you are good, Robin and Susan may come and pay us a visit. Can you be a good boy and stop crying?"

"Don't want to go!" Ash whined.

"Well," Jane said briskly, "it's time to go home. You don't want to stay so long that Susan and Robin are tired of you!"

"We're not tired!" Susan assured her, innocently and unhelpfully.

"Not tired 'tall!" Robin seconded.

"Well, you will be," Jane said, too frazzled to be patient. "We must go, and see to the babies. I would like to invite you all to call tomorrow, but if Ash is not going to be good—"

Ashbury sniffled and whimpered, "I'm good now."

"I hope so. Well—I hope to see you all tomorrow. Mrs. Bordon, thank you for your kind and patient hospitality."

Harriet smiled and kissed her cheek, whispering, "It's quite all right, my dear." Brisk in her turn, she said to her children, "Make your duty to Mrs. Tavington and the Colonel, children."

"Mrs. Bordon, good day to you," Tavington said, bowing respectfully.

They stepped out into the chilly world outdoors and all three of them sighed deeply. After a few yards, Tavington took the weepy Ash from Jane. "You're too big a baby for your sister to carry."

"Not a baby! I'm a big boy!" Ash pouted. "Down! I can walk!"

Gritting his teeth, Tavington set the little boy down gently, and took his hand. Ash walked manfully for a little way, before wanting "Up!" again.

Jane and Tavington did not speak during the short walk, but the cold air was bracing. By the time they entered the arched doorway at Wargrave, both of them were considerably cooled down. Jane spoke first.

"I'll take Ash upstairs. He needs a wash, and I must feed the babies."

"I'll carry him. I need to go upstairs and pull myself together for dinner anyway."

Jane was very glad to see Moll, and said so. The babies were beginning to fuss, hungry for their supper of milk. Jane collapsed wearily into the soft support of the chair, and let Moll arrange things.

"You look tired, ma'am."

"I am. The Colonel and I had a difference of opinion." Briefly she told Moll the news, and found that Moll had already heard it.

"Ma'am, the Colonel has the right of it. You couldn't go off and leave the babies, and you couldn't take 'em with you!"

"Yes, I know. It's just the way he said it that set me off. I don't like to be ordered about—I had quite enough of that from _Papa!" _

"If I were you, ma'am, I'd save my quarreling for a better cause. What about the little gal? Are they bringing her back here?"

"Not _here._ The Colonel refuses to house her here, and I think Sir John feels the same. They're very angry with Porter, and as he is dead, little Deborah is suffering their displeasure on her father's behalf. If it were up to me, I would take her in, for she's a nice child, and an innocent. I really don't think the Colonel will hear of it, and perhaps it _is_ too much to expect him to tolerate one who will always remind him of such terrible events. I must do something for her, however."

Moll sat down, thinking. "Maybe it's best that she get away from here, ma'am. People'll always talk about her father. Maybe she should go where folk ain't heard of her Pa and what he did."

"Hmm." She blew out a breath, stirring the fine hairs on William Francis' little head. He wriggled, and she gave the top of his head a quick kiss. Then she felt obliged to kiss Thomas, too, lest he feel neglected. She turned Moll's words over in her mind.

"You know, I think you may be right. I could send her to school." She straightened, liking the idea more and more. "Yes! There must be a nice boarding school in Chelmsford or Colchester—no—perhaps that's too close. Perhaps London would be better, or somewhere north—"

"Somewhere where she ain't going to see the sea!" Moll suggested tartly.

"You're right! That would be terrible. I shall send a note to Mrs. Hindley. She has educated three daughters, and must have looked into a number of schools. Or perhaps Penelope—no, I don't want the girl to go to a charity school. She will suffer enough. I never went to school myself—I don't even know what the expense might be—"

"Well, ma'am—write your note. Give it to Young Joe to ride over to the Hindleys' and wait for an answer. There's naught to get stirred up about—she ain't going to be here afore tomorrow."

Shortly thereafter the note was written and sent. Jane and Tavington had a quiet dinner together, and then Tavington decided to make peace by drawing his wife into the library, for some pleasant time alone by the fire. Rambler wanted to sit with them, and stretched out by Tavington's chair, watching in bemusement as Nemesis and Jane played together with a length of crimson yarn.

Nemesis was very fierce indeed with the yarn, rolling onto her back and grabbing at it with a flurry of tiny claws and fangs. The end escaped her, and she watched, preternaturally alert, as it wriggled away. She pounced, so suddenly that Rambler barked in alarm. The play began again, and Nemesis got the yarn under her little body and sat on it, satisfied with her triumph.

"Well!" declared Jane in mock vexation, "I suppose you think you're very clever!"

"Nemesis always wins in the end, my Jane," Tavington observed. "What would you prefer? Chess or a book?"

"Oh, a book—especially if you read. I have some sewing to do, and it would be very pleasant."

"Have you ever read Smollett's _Expedition of Humphry Clinker?"_

"No. Miss Gilpin thought his books a little—risqué. Is the book amusing?"

"I like it. I think you'd find it very interesting. It's about a gentleman and his family who take a tour from their home in Wales all around Britain—to Bath and London, and then up to Scotland. They send letters home to their friends describing all the sights and their sometimes ridiculous adventures."

"That does sound nice—sort of a comedy _cum_ travel memoir."

Tavington went to look for the book, and just as he was pulling it from the shelf, Young appeared in the doorway.

"You have a note, Madam. Joe has returned from the Hindleys."

Jane took the paper from the silver salver, and nodded a thanks to the butler. Tavington raised his brows.

"Is there something wrong with the Hindleys?"

"Not at all," said Jane, reading quickly through the contents. "I had a question about schools for girls and I thought that Mrs. Hindley would have some knowledge on that head."

Tavington was puzzled, and then realized on whose behalf she was asking. "Jane—you cannot mean to spend our money on that wretched Porter child!"

Jane shot to her feet glaring. "Mrs. Hindley says it would be only fifteen pounds a year including laundry! And I would use _my_ money! I have money and I like Deborah and I _will_ help her!"

Tavington rose, exasperated. "What money do you mean? I hope you are not—"

Jane whirled and ran from the room, calling over her shoulder, "I do have money! I can prove it!"

He dropped the book to the floor with thump that startled both animals. Nemesis darted under a chair, but Rambler followed his master, barking, as Tavington ran after Jane.

"You are the stubbornest creature I ever knew!" Tavington shouted, racing up the stairs behind her. "I cannot understand you!" He caught up with her in a moment, and grabbed her by the arm.

Jane jerked her arm free, and clattered angrily up the stairs, hiking her petticoats scandalously high. She pressed her lips together, and strode angrily to the door of the room and flung it open with a bang.

"Here!" Jane said, rifling through her chest of drawers. She threw aside some linen and produced a battered tin box. "Now you'll know my darkest secrets, and I hope you are satisfied!"

She snatched off the lid and held it out for his inspection. "Here is four hundred sixty-five pounds, four shillings, and sixpence. It is the last of my money from the days before we married. This was my nest egg if disaster befell me. With this I paid off Miss Gilpin when my father cheated her, I bought Letty's clothing for our journey to England, and I outfitted Moll. You simply thought I was frugal! Well-- I _am,_ but the rest I kept to live on in case—in case—" her eyes filled with tears.

Tavington stared at her in bewilderment. "In case—what?"

"In case you took my money and deserted me!"

"Jane!" He sat down heavily on the bed. "You cannot still have that ridiculous idea in your head! I leave _you_? Perhaps you mean if you ran away from _me!_"

"I would _never_ do such a thing!"

"Then why hide this money from me?" He thought a little longer, and got up. He took her firmly by the shoulders. "Jane. I am not going to leave you, ever. I swear it." With a finger he brushed away a tear. "Nor will you leave me. For if you did I would—what was it you once said?—'hunt you down. You'd never escape me.' Well, I feel exactly the same." Seeing how upset she was, he softened his tone. "I am very glad you have this money, my darling. It's nice for you to have a little cache when you wish to be extravagant or charitable. I just don't understand why you want to spend it on this little chit whose father betrayed us. You are too forgiving, Jane!"

She gave him a quick hard glance. "Well for you that I am!"

"What do you mean?" he asked in surprise.

"You cannot have it both ways, William. I forgave you completely, and I accepted your little Thomas into my home and heart. He shares my very milk with my own son. If I can forgive that, how can I not forgive an innocent little girl who never did me harm? Thomas is no more innocent than she. If you were consistent, you would dislike me for the sake of my father._ I_ cannot be hard with one and soft with another. I am what I am, and I cannot be cruel to a child."

He wrapped his arms about her and pressed her close. "No, I would not want you to be that sort of woman. Do as you please with the girl, but don't expect me to tolerate her under our roof."

She softened a little in her turn. Setting down the box, she held him tightly. "I don't expect it. I know you find it hard to forgive a wrong. Besides, it would not be good for the child. Who knows what ill-natured people might say to her behind my back? I shall send her to this school Mrs. Hindley recommends. It is far away in a little village near Northampton, and no one other than the Headmistress need know about her father. I shall ask Miss Gilpin to help me, too. Deborah can be sent with a servant to Biggleswade, and then Miss Gilpin can take her on to the school."

He gave her a long, warm kiss. "That is a very sensible and humane plan. The sooner she leaves the neighborhood, the better—for her too. Write to your old friend at once, and I'll have a manservant ride there directly. It can all be settled by the time we are ready to leave for London. I am very happy you have some extra money to spend as you like. Now, are you still angry with me?"

"A little."

He kissed her again.

She persisted. "Don't order me about like one of your dragoons. I already know I must obey you. It's not necessary to hector me."

"I lost my temper. I was thinking only of you. Are you sure you want to actually see the girl? Will it not distress you?"

She let him kiss her again, and cooperated more fully. After a moment, she replied, "Not at all. I have no difficulty separating her from her wicked, silly father. Neither should you."

He took her by the hand and led her to the bed. "Then let us be friends again."

Rambler was sitting up, watching them attentively. Tavington noticed him and grimaced.

"Out! Go see Moll!"

He shooed the dog away and shut the door. Through it, they could hear Moll in the nursery, laughing at them.

------

The next day was a bustle of activity. Jane asked Pullen if the remaining scraps of the bombazine would make a mourning dress for a little girl.

"'Twould be a short and skimpy thing, ma'am."

"Perhaps I had better send to Chelmsford and see if the shop has any of it left."

"'Tis is a good thought, ma'am. If it would not be too great a liberty, perhaps I could go myself and see that it was the same stuff. There's a fearsome deal of other things we need. If you've a mind to outfit Deborah Porter, she'll need a cloak and gloves and a trunk and all. Not that I'm getting above myself, ma'am, but I could discharge it all faster and better than another. Then there's the fine linen for the babes, and some broadcloth for to make some little coats, and you wanting a new petticoat and sleeves for your own gown, and—"

"You're quite right," Jane surrendered. "Let us make a list immediately. Have a good breakfast and then go at once. Let us see if Moll needs anything."

As it happened, there was plenty that Moll wanted, but not much that she needed instantly. "I'll be London soon enough, but maybe things can be got cheaper in Chelmsford. If you would, Miss Pullen, take this money and buy me three shirt lengths of decent linen. I've a mind to make some for my Tom, by way of a wedding present. 'Twill be an occupation when I'm in town. If there's a bit left, pick up a huswife for the poor little gal so she can do a bit of sewing. 'Twill take her mind off her troubles."

"Well thought of, Moll. Pullen, here is my list. Young Joe will go with you and carry the parcels. Do try to keep warm."

She spent the morning with the babies, helped by Rose. Tavington filled the time by taking a gun out, accompanied by Moll and Tom and Rambler, to do a bit of shooting. Jane heard some shots echoing in the distance, and hoped he was having a good time. He was in a better humor this morning, resigned to his wife's patronage of the little orphan. He was even amused by the tin box, and promised to get her something more fitting to hold her _darkest secrets_ when they returned to London. A little before noon, Sir John appeared, walking up the lane. Jane greeted him, anxious to hear the whole story.

"I'm half-starved, Mrs. Tavington. Could I wheedle a shred of sustenance from the kitchens?"

In short order, the dining table was laden with cold ham and cold pigeon pie: with pickles, with thick-sliced bread and cheese. Tavington appeared, somewhat tidied, to enjoy the collation with his brother, while Jane waited impatiently for the story.

"Ha! Mulled cider!" John exclaimed, breathing in the fragrant steam. "I love my cook—in a perfectly chaste and appropriate way, of course," he grinned. "Well, well! I can see you want to know what happened, Mrs. Tavington, so I'll tell you without more ado. The child is found and is put to bed at the Bordons' even now. Mrs. Bordon ordered a basin of soup for her. Needs something hot and wholesome in her, poor little mite."

Tavington carved a generous slice of ham for Jane. "Did you have to pay the reward?"

John grumbled, "Oh, yes. No help for it. The fellow held to his rights, and I can't say I blame him. I should have written the notice more clearly. It is hard, though, to lose another fifty pounds on top of the money that went to the bottom with Porter."

"It is all lost, then?" Jane asked.

"Everything. The wind blew up, the boat capsized, and the only thing found was the girl. They righted the boat, but everything it had carried was gone. If anything floated to shore, nobody's telling, and that's their right, of course—the salvager owns what he finds. Hard luck on me, but there it is."

"What about Deborah? Did they use her very ill?"

"It could have been worse. Some old woman was looking after her until the bailiffs came and took her to gaol. Her clothing was rather the worse for wear, naturally, and had only just dried. I'll say for the old woman that she made them wait until the girl was dressed before she let them take her. The gaoler put her in a cell by herself, so she wasn't pawed by the inmates. The gaoler's wife even fed her fairly well. Of course," he said, looking uncomfortable, "she had seen her family drown only a few days before, and some pretty hard things were said to her. She was frightened half to death by the sight of me, but Bordon calmed her down and told her you weren't dead—she had some idea that you'd been murdered, from all the gossip—and that nobody was going to hang her. I passed a bit of money to the right people last night, and they released her to me early this morning. Bordon and I thought we'd best be off before they changed their minds and held her until the quarterly Assizes."

"That was very kindly done of you, Sir John. I shall go to the Bordons' directly and see her."

"Jane is concocting a scheme to send the girl away north to school as soon as possible," Tavington told his brother. "Her friend Miss Gilpin will be asked to help."

"Very kind of you," John said, quaffing more cider. "Good idea all around to get her out of the way of gossip."

"I shall bring back Susan and Robin to play with Ash when I return, " Jane said. "I promised that they could visit, even if Harriet is too busy."

"I shall go with you," Tavington said. "There is no need for you to walk alone."

Rambler went with them too, trotting alongside amiably. He had had a good hunt, and was rather full of himself. He lounged politely while Tavington got the rest of the story from Bordon.

Meanwhile, Harriet took Jane upstairs to look in on little Deborah. The curtains were partly drawn. In the grey light, the child looked dead at first. Jane shivered, and then made herself sit on the edge of the bed.

"Deborah. It is I, Mrs. Tavington."

The girl's heavy eyes opened, looking at Jane with inexpressible relief. "Oh! You're not dead! Sir John said you weren't, but people don't always tell children the truth. I was so frightened."

The girl struggled to sit up, and Harriet put a helping hand behind her back. The pillows were arranged, and Deborah reached out a tentative hand. Jane took it and smiled kindly at her.

"I am perfectly well. I had a bad fright, but the Colonel kept me from harm. I am very sorry about your family, my dear. No one blames you, and I will see that you are cared for."

Deborah burst out--"I knew that we were leaving forever when Papa made us pack everything. Mamma knew it too. He had been taking bits out to the road for weeks, and hiding them in the hollow oak at the crossroads. Mamma cried that day, and said that Sir John would chase us, but Papa said that that horrible man who stayed with us would frighten you, and everyone would be looking so hard for him that no one would think about us. I'm sorry he frightened you. That was a mean trick. I knew you were coming that day, and I asked Mamma to send a note to you to tell you we were gone, but she said Papa wouldn't hear of it. Then they said that man killed you and I was an accomplice—"

Jane hugged the little girl tightly. "You are nothing of the sort. Your father was foolish to trust such a bad man, but I know your mother and the other children had no part in it. I am not angry with you. Now—here—" she gave the girl a handkerchief. "Keep that. It's yours."

"What's going to become of me?" Deborah whimpered. "The gaoler's wife said I would be sent to debtor's prison if I didn't hang, because Papa owed Sir John money. Set me to work as a servant, but please don't send me to prison!"

Jane answered, more fiercely than she meant to. "No one's sending you to prison!"

Harriet touched her shoulder warningly, and told the girl, "You may stay here until other plans are made. You need food and rest and quiet. You need fear nothing here."

"Oh, yes! Thank you, Mrs. Bordon! I wish you had come a long time ago!"

Jane sighed, wishing the same. None of this might have happened if John had not neglected to appoint a clergyman to this parish. She said only, "I have been thinking about what is best for you. I have decided to send you to a good school a friend recommended."

"School?" Deborah asked, very surprised. "But I can already read and write and do plain work—"

"That is all very well," Jane told her, 'but I have in mind sending you to a school where you will receive a gentlewoman's education. At Mrs. Cooper's school you will learn all the proper branches of study: music, drawing, mathematics, fine sewing, and languages. It will fit you to earn your living as a schoolteacher or governess. It is a fine, healthy place, I'm told, and Mrs. Cooper is a kind woman. First we shall help you recover, and then we shall outfit you properly. If you feel able to stand, we need to measure you now for some clothing."

The maid was called, and told to bring the sewing box. With Harriet's help, Deborah was eased out of bed, clad only in a ragged shift. Her measurements were quickly taken, and then noted down. She climbed gratefully back in, and Jane and Harriet sorted through her pathetic garments.

Harriet whispered, "She needs everything. Robert had to wrap her in a blanket for the journey back. So far she shows no signs of infection, thank God. She must have a very strong constitution."

Overhearing them, Deborah cried, "I wasn't strong enough! I wasn't strong enough! Papa and the boatman were arguing so, and nobody was watching when the wind changed. The wave came, and the boat when up and up and up and then it twisted over. Everything slid sideways. The boatman was hit on the head by the sail swinging around and then Mamma screamed and screamed. She was holding onto Prissy so tight and her cap went flying—"

"Oh, Deborah," Jane groaned, sitting down and taking the girl's cold hands in her own.

"Let her talk if she needs to," Harriet murmured.

"—And then the water rushed up to us and it covered us. It was so cold I stopped breathing for a second, and then I kicked hard and I fought and my hand hit the side of the boat. I took a big breath and I started climbing. And then I saw Papa farther off and Harry was crying for help. I called to Papa, too, but he swam to Harry and they tried to get back to the boat. Papa was pushing Harry at me, and I tried to reach for his hand and pull him up, but I wasn't strong enough! My hand was so cold that I couldn't hold on any more, and Harry let go and went under again. Papa dived down, and then another wave came and the boat rocked so I thought it would turn over again. I saw Papa once more. Just his head, and he was looking around and calling, "Harry! Harry!" and then there was another wave and he was gone. And I was all alone."

"My dear child," Jane croaking, crying herself. "I'm so sorry!"

Harriet sat on her other side, and said, "Never blame yourself, Deborah. God in his mercy spared you, and you did nothing wrong. It was for your parents to protect you and your brother and sisters. Your father was foolish to trust a wicked man, but he suffered and paid for his mistake. God understands when people make mistakes, and as for your innocent mother and the children, I promise you that God has them safe in his care and they have nothing more to fear ever. You must be a brave girl and live for them. _Never_ blame yourself for living." She wiped the girl's tear-stained face with a damp cloth. "I want you to sleep now. My maid Sarah will sit with you. Close your eyes and rest."

They left the room and shut the door silently.

"That _stupid_ man," Jane whispered bitterly.

Harriet was firm with Jane, too. "He's dead, and he died knowing that he had killed his family. That pays for all. I like your idea about the school. When do you plan to send her?"

"As soon as she's well enough. I have sent my maid to Chelmsford to buy some things for her. A letter was dispatched to my old friend in Biggleswade. Deborah can be sent there first, and then Miss Gilpin can escort her to Little Brockham, near Northampton. No one need know the story, and she will have a good education. I've always found her a sensible, good-hearted child, and this will give her a chance in life."

Harriet embraced her. "You are a very fine person to care for this little orphan. Please allow me to help in the sewing. I don't know what to do about her shoes, though. The saltwater has turned them nearly green. They dried partly on her feet, and so they still fit after a fashion, but they look dreadful. There is no proper cobbler resident at Wargrave Cross, as I understand."

"I had thought to have Miss Gilpin see to that in Biggleswade. Deborah can stay there a week or two before she goes on to school."

They went down the stairs together, an arm about the other's waist. The men looked up, both smiling to see such signs of amiability between their wives.

"All sorted out, then?" Tavington said, with a lifted brow.

"For the most part. I sent Pullen to Chelmsford this morning to make some purchases, both for the child and for us. We shall outfit her and send her to Biggleswade very soon, as long as she does not fall ill."

Tavington rose, "Well then, let us take your children off your hands for the afternoon, and perhaps the two of you can have some peace! Bordon, you look all in, man."

"I am, rather."

"You are certain you don't mind?" asked Harriet.

"Not at all. We promised to have the children visit, and they can walk over with us."

The children were brought down, and wrapped up against the cold, and the Tavingtons gave a hand to each, while a happy Rambler herded them all home again.

-----

That was not the only excitement of the day. Late in the afternoon, after Pullen had returned and the little Bordons been taken home, an express rider rode up to the door of Wargrave Hall.

"For Mrs. Tavington," they were told, and Jane wondered what thunderbolt would strike them now.

"It is from Letty," she said, rather bemused by the contents.

_January 8, 1782 _

_My dearest, dearest sister, _

_I am well. I am sending this by express because I wanted you to speak to you right away. Lord Fanshawe would think me silly, but I have money now, and my friend Lady Carteret told me how to send an express. I did not give the letter to Mr. Speedwell because I decided that I do not want him reading my letters. Also I did not want him tattling to Lord Fanshawe that I had sent an express. _

_There is no alarm. I just wanted to talk to you and know that it would not take weeks for this to reach you. It is silly and extravagant, but I don't care. I miss you terribly. Please come to London. I know you like Wargrave Hall, but please come to London. I want to sit and talk with you. I am with child, and I need you so! _

_Lord Fanshawe and I make for London tomorrow, but slowly. We shall pass through Oxford, for Lord Fanshawe wants me to see the varsity where he studied. He did other things there, he admits, but he speaks very fondly of his teachers, too. He went to Jesus College there. Then we will spend some days with his friends who have a great country house, and then south to stay with another old friend at his place. _

_There was a great Twelfth Night Ball here, even though it was Sunday. Lord Fanshawe does not care about such things. His family was invited and many other friends. It was fairly clear and we looked at the half moon through our telescope. It was cold, and thus every one was wrapped in grand cloaks and furs. I was praised for providing a novel entertainment. _

_Bath was very nice. I went to the theater eight times. The latest play I saw was The Rivals. It was very funny and Captain Jack Absolute reminded me of the Colonel. We drank the waters nearly every day and his Lordship went to the hot bath often. He did not recommend it for me, though. I was glad. I saw the women bathing. They get all sopping wet in their clothes. One lady's petticoat slipped from her and she had to call her maid to dive under the water to retrieve it. The poor girl was a sight when she came up to the surface again. _

_I danced a great deal and heard some fine music. We met the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire, and she was most elegant and civil, though she and the Duke speak in a ridiculous way. There were endless balls and dinners that we gave or attended. I long for London and you. _

_Dearest sister, when I am back in the London house I have devised a plan for my days that will be better than constantly concerning myself with fashion. _

_Eight o'clock-- Rise and Dress (I know it sounds late, but we keep such hours, I do not know how I shall rise any earlier and still get any sleep) _

_Nine o'clock-- Meet with the housekeeper and cook. _

_Ten o'clock-- Write letters and practice music. _

_Eleven o'clock-- Breakfast (His lordship never takes breakfast any earlier) _

_Noon –A lesson of some sort. I shall have our good friend Mr. Bellini twice a week. On the other days (except Sunday, of course) I shall have lessons in Drawing, French, and Italian. _

_One o'clock—Dress to go calling on the days that I go out. Otherwise I shall have nice long lessons. _

_Two o'clock—Morning Calls except on Sunday, of course, and Wednesday, when I shall be At Home to receive visitors. Do you think Wednesday is a good day? What day will you be At Home? If you want Wednesday I can choose another day. _

_Four o'clock—A dish of tea, either at home or with a friend. The Painted Parlor is so pretty. You must see it. _

_Five o'clock—Dress for dinner _

_Six or seven o'clock—Dine, depending upon our evening plans. _

_The rest of the evening to be as guests or hosts of some entertainment, for his lordship never spends a quiet evening at home. _

_On Sundays I shall go to church and do a great deal of reading. I imagine we shall give dinners on Sundays sometimes. I want you to be our very first guests. _

_As you see I spend a great deal of time dressing. Lord Fanshawe expects me to look very fine. My maid are sweet girls, and I am learning some French from them. Lord Fanshawe feels I must learn French and Italian. I am sure Mr. Bellini will help me with Italian. P__erhaps you would like to learn Italian, too? You could come and we could practice together. _

_His lordship is resolved that we arrive in London by the sixteenth. Surely the Colonel will allow you to come to London. I long to see William Francis and Little Ash again, too. Mama loved Little Ash so much. His lordship has urged me to give all the little boys good presents. I shall wait until we meet in London, so you can tell me what would be most welcome. _

_I pray you are well, and believe me _

_Your most loving sister, _

_Letty _

"Well," asked Tavington, "what is the matter? Is she ill?"

"She says not." Jane smiled, rather tenderly. "She is with child. She misses me and begs me to come to London, where she will be on the sixteenth."

"A child! Fanshawe must be insufferably smug, the old lecher!"

"I am sure she is very happy about it."

"So much the better! You may debate the matter with me, but I know you will willingly oblige your sister, especially if she is in such a condition."

"You have already convinced me. I hope she is not unhappy. She does not say she is, but she sounds very lonely. She is eager for improvement and learning when she comes to London."

Jane read out Letty's projected daily schedule, which drew a snort from Tavington.

"Very praiseworthy, I daresay, but I doubt either her health or the whirl of London will allow her to honor it. So, Mrs. Tavington, when will _you_ be 'At Home?'"

"Often, I hope! But not on Wednesdays, it seems. On Wednesdays, I shall spend the afternoons with Lady Fanshawe. And I _would_ like to learn some Italian. Perhaps she could have her lesson in that subject on Wednesdays."

"Why? So you two and your friend Bellini can keep secrets together?" Tavington said, trying to keep his tone light. Jane thumped his arm, with a little disbelieving laugh.

Tavington smiled back, but truth be told, he rather resented Bellini. The man had written several times to Jane, and his letters always made her laugh. Bellini was older than Tavington, and quite ugly, in his opinion; but he _was_ Italian, and a musician, and altogether a smooth, plausible fellow. Just the sort to try to deceive a trusting woman. Jane was probably too clever for him, but Letty might be vulnerable, especially if she were unhappy in her marriage. He must keep an eye on the business, and warn Jane if necessary. Not now, though. He did not want to throw cold water on anything that drew her to London.

-----

On Friday a servant arrived from Mortimer Square, bearing Jane's traveling habit, wrapped in heavy paper. Pullen made her try it on, and they both admired it. Very plain, as mourning clothes should be, but also very elegantly cut and finished off with great skill.

In the meantime, the Wargrave Sewing Society (President, Mrs. William Tavington, Vice-President Mrs. Robert Bordon) had made evident its own industry and resourcefulness. Their first achievement was a soft and warm little dress of the bombazine for Deborah Porter, so she could leave her bedchamber without appearing like a scarecrow. She wanted to help with the sewing, so Harriet cut some squares of linen and had the child bind the edges for handkerchiefs. Deborah was very timid about appearing downstairs, and took her meals in the nursery, where she made herself useful. The rest of the sewing was doled out to every woman in the Tavington and Bordon households: to one a shift, to another a petticoat, or a cap.

Nonetheless, Tavington caught a glimpse of her on a visit. A pale, washed-out looking child: probably paler than usual because of the contrast with the sooty black of her clothing. Long, light brown hair and a plain but clever little face. He looked again, and felt a surge of pity. He did not know if Jane acknowledged the resemblance, but her interest in the girl was no longer a mystery—or even a grievance –to him.

That afternoon, he went up into the attics of Wargrave Hall and found some things of his sisters' that had been put away and forgotten. An old tortoise-shell toilet set: brush and comb and little hand-mirror, still serviceable if not very grand; and an unused leather-bound notebook that Lucy had intended for a diary, but had neglected. There was a silver chatelaine that he thought might have been Caro's: it pinned to the waist of a gown and attached to it with delicate chains were a penknife, a thimble, a needlecase, a tiny crystal bottle for scent or smelling salts, and a small pair of scissors in a case. A bundle of drawing pencils would be just the thing to amuse a child. A curious little box of inlaid wood caught his eye. The items were gathered up and left on the sewing table in the dressing room without comment. Jane said nothing herself, and packed them away amidst the growing pile of possessions in the child's new trunk.

The men went out shooting every morning. In the afternoons, Bordon saw his parishioners and worked on his upcoming maiden sermon. Tavington and his brother rode all over the estate, visiting the farmers, the villages, and the clergymen, talking and planning. Lord Colchester's steward, Mr. Somerville, produced a nephew whom John thought might do very well in Porter's place. They went in detail through the account books, glad that much of the debt had been made good, and sorry about the rest.

"I'll admit I'm put out about losing that three thousand," John told Tavington in private. "I'd intended to set the entire amount aside for Fanny, and now I must start over. Perhaps I'll have some luck at the tables back in London. If I do, I swear that I shall put the first five thousand I win in the funds for my daughter, so help me God!"

Tavington grunted in sympathy, but the conversation reminded him that John was still far richer than he could ever hope to be. He and Jane now had three boys to provide for, and only the interest from Jane's money and his own wages to live upon. The boys would need money of their own. Will did not even have the six hundred pounds Ash and Tom possessed. Young officers could not possibly live on their meager wages. Tavington knew that from humiliating experience. His memoirs, though a favorite project, were unlikely to earn much money, if any. They would keep him in the public eye, and with luck, benefit his former soldiers.

The real money was in government appointments. Many men had made fortunes as paymasters or controllers or some such. Much as he had loved this short time in the country, Tavington knew he must return to London and be prepared to do whatever was necessary to push his fortunes at Court and in the Army.

-----

Sunday arrived, and the bells of the Wargrave Cross Church, so long silent, rang out again. Bordon had settled the verger, sexton, and parish clerk in their old offices. The parish turned out in force to hear their new vicar. Tavington went dutifully, his arm in Jane's, and John of course came too, rather heavy-headed from too much good wine the night before.

Moll and Tom sat together in the back, longing to hear the banns for their upcoming wedding. Moll looked surprisingly genteel in her black gown, but her smile was very wide for anyone wearing mourning.

The Tavingtons sat together in the family pew, which was alarmingly visible to the entire congregation. Harriet sat in the vicar's pew. Bordon spoke on charity, and the text was from the reading from the New Testament was First Corinthians, chapter thirteen.

_"When I was a child, I spake as a child. I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. For now we see through a glass, darkly: but then face to face: now I know in part: but then shall I know even as also I am known. And now abideth Faith, Hope, Charity, these three; but the greatest of these is Charity." _

It was a very good sermon. Bordon had a clear and resonant voice that carried well, and his delivery was serious without pomposity, and sincere without wild-eyed enthusiasm. Harriet was smiling, even throughout the most solemn parts, tremendously proud of her husband.

Tavington hoped that his friend had found his niche. Bordon was a clever fellow with a good heart. He had seen enough of life not to be easily shocked, and would take his duties here seriously, just as he done his duties in the army. Currently, Bordon was most concerned about the parish school, and was trying the trace the whereabouts of the former schoolmaster.

The banns were published, not just for Moll and Tom, but for five other couples. Bordon would be busy with marriages alone. The Bordons were invited to dine that night at Wargrave, and everyone cherished the time they had left together.

"But we will meet again soon!" Jane comforted herself and the rest. "The Colonel and I will return on the twenty-sixth, and see dear Mrs. Royston married the following Monday. By that time you will be well settled in the neighborhood. Everyone is so pleased with you!"

When the ladies withdrew after dinner, they talked again about Deborah's belongings. She was looking better: still sad, but now looking forward to going to a real school for young ladies.

"Robert will take her to Biggleswade on Tuesday," Harriet told Jane. "Your Miss Gilpin knows him, so it seemed the best thing. It is but thirty-four miles, so he plans to rest the horses and return later the same day."

"Does he have the money in a convenient place—" Jane began anxiously.

"Yes, yes! My dear Jane, he has the purse you gave him with the fees, and the traveling money for Miss Gilpin, and the money for the shoes and other incidentals, and some spending money for Deborah herself. Everything is packed and ready, as you know perfectly well!"

Jane smiled wanly, still afraid there would be some unexpected trouble. Miss Gilpin had replied by the same courier who had brought her Jane's letter. She was perfectly happy to be of assistance to Jane's protégée, the poor little orphan. The child could stay with her until Miss Gilpin felt she was ready to go to school. Jane's money would pay handsomely for a hired carriage that would take them to Mrs. Cooper's, and then return Miss Gilpin to her home.

Deborah had been instructed to write regularly to Mrs. Tavington and Mrs. Bordon, and was provided with sufficient writing materials.

"I thought it a very good idea," Harriet remarked. "No matter how decent people are, it does no harm for them to know that others are watching how a child is treated." She gave Jane a fond hug. "Stop at the vicarage when you leave tomorrow, no matter how early. I want to kiss the children goodbye, and Susan and Robin will be heartbroken if they cannot see you all before you go to London."

"We shall, of course."

-----

Even John was up and about early that morning. The children were fed and dressed warmly, the trunks were loaded into the carriage, and Jane arrayed herself in her handsome new mourning garb. Gloomy as her appearance was, it was very stylish.

Rose cried to see them go, even with Jane's assurances that they would be back in three weeks and by that time Rose would be safe forever from the smallpox and would returning with them to London. All the servants gathered to see them off, and Jane and John and Tavington himself had to stand and submit to the fond tears and kisses of the elderly Mrs. Carter and Maggie Jeffreys.

The brothers would travel on horseback, as would the two valets, leaving the coach for Jane, her two maidservants, and the children. Rambler stood whimpering by Tom Young, who held the dog by the collar, lest he run after his people. Moll was good-humored as ever, but very sleepy. Jane suspected that she and Tom had bid a fond farewell to each other at length the night before.

"Are you feeling well, Moll?"

"Never better. Swelled-up like a dead toad, here and there, but t'ain't nothing I can't handle. I'll miss Tom, but I'll go to the shops and get us all set up, while Tom has some fellows in to fix up the cottage. A bit of carpenter's work—and a cradle—and there ain't going to be a better house in England!"

Ash was happy to ride in the carriage, once he saw that everyone was going, but it was clear that he did not understand that they would not soon return to Wargrave Hall. They got out at the Bordons' and were kissed again. Susan and Robin lined up, looking upset, and Deborah Porter stood with them, tears in her eyes.

"Well, well," muttered John. "You're a good girl, Deborah. I hope you find the school to your liking."

Impulsively he reached into a pocket and gave her two gold guineas. Tavington smiled tightly, and hoped that Ash would not throw a tantrum when they left. At least he would be in the coach, and Tavington would not have to hear the wailing from close quarters.

However, Ash was put out because he wanted to ride on the horse with the man he had now learned to call "Kernah." Not wanting a scene, Tavington took the little boy in front of him on his saddle, hoping the child would soon tire. They waved, and blew kisses, and Ash sat up straight, very proud to be riding with the men.

Jane sighed and sat back on the cushions, knowing the babies were bound to cause trouble eventually. No use in repining: she looked forward to being in London, even if she did not look forward to the journey. She looked back, seeing the corner of Wargrave Hall behind her through the trees, massive and reassuring. It would be here whenever she might come back. Reluctantly, she glimpsed the part of the lane that would always fill her with dread. It too was falling behind, as the coach picked up speed. The kind voices faded into the noise of the rolling wheels. In time, they bounced and jounced over the joining with the London road, and were well on their way. _In the spring,_ Jane thought, _John must have the road repaired._

She peered through window, wondering which was the hollow oak that Porter had used to hide his family's belongings. For some time, the babies wanted attention, and Jane played with them, hoping to keep them happy. Another mile, and Ash was tired, and was handed into the carriage and settled down for a nap, his head in Moll's comfortable lap. Pullen's fingers worked busily at her sewing, while Jane dozed, and waked, and completely missed the part of the road where the Carvers had attacked them months before.

Ash woke, and grew restless. "I'm hungwy."

A hamper was opened, and he was given a piece of bread and butter, and a little cup of cider.

"I need to pee."

He balked at using the little pot in the coach. Moll was a little uncomfortable herself: so in the end the coach slowed, and stopped, and the women took turns walking out of sight, along with Ash, who wasn't sure he really needed to go after all, but then, going back to the coach, had to go right away.

Jane's patience was stretched thin. She was almost cross with Tavington, lounging comfortably in the saddle, smiling at her with ironic resignation. It was at this halt that they noticed a straggler following them, sore-footed but undaunted.

"You idiot dog!" Tavington said, amazed. "Look, John! That ridiculous dog has tracked us the entire way. Here! Rambler!"

Rambler loped toward him, tongue flapping to the side, and made a spectacle of himself as he rolled over on his back and fawned at the feet of Tavington's horse. Jane poked her head out of the coach.

"Is that Rambler? How is it possible?"

"It is, but I don't think he can keep up much longer. Would it be too impossible for him to ride in the coach?"

"Wambler!" Ash screeched.

Thus it was that Rambler scrambled up the steps and abased himself doggily once more. He was moderately pleased to see Pullen, rather pleased to see the babies, quite pleased to see Jane, very pleased to be hauled about by Ash's eager hands, and sublimely overjoyed to be with Moll again.

Jane grinned shamelessly. "We must never tell the Colonel, but I suspect that the poor dog was following _you._"

Moll chuckled, and buried her fingers in Rambler's thick coat. "He's a good dog, that's for sure."

They were rolling again.

"I'm tired," Ash announced.

He did not want to lie down here, he said. He was tired of riding in the coach. He wanted to go to his bed in the nursery and be with Rose. Jane wondered how the Bordons had managed to cross the Atlantic without committing mayhem on troublesome little boys.

The babies cried, and needed to be changed, and needed to be fed, and then it was getting to be past their usual dinner time. They were approaching London at last, and Jane's urgings that Ash be patient were growing a little more clipped. Rambler was the best behaved of her charges, stretched out serenely on the floor of the coach. Finally Ash consented to lie down by the dog, and rested his blond head on the shining russet back. Rambler panted with content, smiling broadly.

Jane was so relieved to be turning into Oxford Street that she nearly cried. Buildings grew familiar: the houses grew more expensive-looking. They saw the corner of Mortimer Street and turned to the right, past Colchester House.

"Home at last!" she cried, and then stopped, rather embarrassed.

Was this her home? _I suppose it is. Yes. This is my home. I shall always love Wargrave, but this is my home—our home—the children's home._

They drove to the door and stopped. Tavington was waiting to hand her out, smiling his own pleasure at being back in London.

The babies were handed out to waiting servants, but Ash had fallen asleep, and objected to leaving the coach. He kicked and whined until Moll swept him up in her strong arms and carried him down the steps. Rambler looked eagerly out the door before he trotted down after the rest of the party.

"Nooooooo!" Ash roared, hungry and over-tired.

"Be quiet, Ash," Tavington ordered, and was surprised when the little boy stopped complaining.

_Hmmm. I must remember to use that tone again,_ Tavington thought, absurdly pleased with himself. Jane looked exhausted, and he decided that they would enjoy an afternoon nap together.

Almost instantly, the noise began again: not from one, but from three little boys.

"They must be starving!" Jane said, taking her husband's arm. "We'd best get them upstairs."

"At once, Madam," Tavington agreed, with mock solemnity. "We cannot delay their triumphal entry into the nursery of Number Twelve, Mortimer Square!"

* * *

**End Part II **

**Notes:** huswife—a housewife: a little sewing kit that could be kept in a pocket.

If you have seen the common mottled brown plastic that is used in cheap hair ornaments, you should know that it is made that way to copy the appearance of tortoise shell. It was not particularly cheap in the 18th century.

I will take a one or two week break, to finish outlining the plot of the third part of _Tavington's Heiress._ Please leave a review. It will encourage me to work harder. I do take suggestions into account. Thanks to all who have stuck with me. Since you express interest, I will continue the adventures of the Tavingtons and their friends as William and Jane plunge into London life, meet the King and Queen, and uncover a dangerous secret.

**Next—Chapter 54: All Roads Lead to London **


	54. All Roads Lead to London

**Part III **

**Chapter 54: All Roads Lead to London **

In the middle of an exclusive street in the middle of exclusive Mayfair was a most exclusive gentlemen's club. The service was impeccable, for the waiters effaced themselves skillfully, sometimes making one wonder if the wine had appeared by magic. The members particularly liked the chairs: large, soft capacious chairs, smelling of the best leather:--chairs in which one could sink out of the world's reckoning and enjoy peace, perfect peace, with loved ones far away. They were not the chairs one would find in a Mayfair drawing room: those hard, narrow, spindle-legged horrors that seemed determined to eject their occupants by the artful means of their slippery silk upholstery. No, indeed--the club chairs enveloped one in comfort, and invited the happy gentleman who sat in them to stay as long as he pleased.

William Tavington entered the club that afternoon with a spring in his step. How pleasant to meet friends, to play cards, to hear the latest news. Important news, of course, concerning the war and politics. It was not _gossip_—he was quite clear about that-- not the trivial things that silly women went on about. If the conversation sometimes veered in the direction of the personal lives of one's acquaintances—their views, their ambitions, their horses, or their love affairs—it was understandable, for one needed to know these important details to fully understand a friend or enemy.

Life was good. Not only did he have the common pleasures of clubs and dinners, but Jane was at home now at Mortimer Square, at home where she belonged. He would chat with his acquaintances for a few hours, and then go home to his wife, taking tea with her, dining with her, slipping into the velvet darkness of her bed at night, her soft skin warm against his. It would be very pleasant to have Jane share a home with him, just as she ought. With Mamma confined to her apartments, the rest of the house was theirs to command.

Pen and Caro had greeted them so happily. Pen had handed the household keys over to Jane, and would not brook a refusal. His sisters had kissed the trio of cranky little boys, delighted to have children in the house to stay. John had clapped him on the back, telling him he was quite content to be a boarder until he had his own place, and that henceforth he considered Tavington the master here.

Jane was pleased with the little changes and repairs that Pen had undertaken: the billiard table showed no evidence that it had ever been used for any other purpose; stained and frayed brocades in the drawing room, music room and ballroom had been replaced by fresh new fabric. They had not gone to the expense of new-furnishing the rooms: Mamma had done that not three years ago, and the cost had been no light matter. Nonetheless, the new touches had served their purpose. Number Twelve, Mortimer Square was looking very handsome indeed. It looked just as it should: like the elegant—even luxurious—home of a well-connected family...

Tavington smiled, relaxing into his club chair, remembering the charming scene. The sound of sweet ladylike voices made a pleasant background music for his daily life. He had hoped to have John's company at the club, but John was engrossed in his duties and gone to attend a debate. The Tory whip was astonished that it was no longer uphill work to get John in for votes. If John went on in this way, he might yet make something of himself. 

Or would, if their party were not soon to be out of office. The Whigs were nipping at their heels. Lord North would face a no-confidence vote any day now, and then the whole pack of knaves and liars would be swept into power. Tavington tried not to be downhearted. The Whigs could not rule forever. If only John could keep up this sudden interest in his career!

He sighed deeply, and the sound was just loud enough to awaken his neighbor in the next chair from a light doze.

"Tavington? Is that you? Good God!" The muzzy, sleepy voice cleared, and the occupant, until now hidden by the sheltering wings of the chair, leaned forward. Tavington saw first the tip of a beaky nose, and then the rest of a long, gangling young man.

"Rawdon! You're here! I was planning on calling on you!" Tavington's face lit with pleasure, and he reached over to shake Lord Rawdon's hand.

"I was planning on calling on _you!_ How are you? You look very well!"

"And you, too. French food obviously agreed with you."

Rawdon laughed easily. "I admit that my French captors fed me well—especially in the last few weeks of my durance vile. I can hardly complain of my treatment. It was certainly better than any I could have expected had I fallen into rebel hands."

The rebels, in fact, had wanted to hang Francis, Lord Rawdon, for his execution of a spy and parole-breaker. The French had been scandalized by the request to do just that. After some month of waiting and a heavy ransom, they had set Rawdon free, and he was now back in London, reacquainting himself with all his old friends. He looked far healthier than he had when Tavington had seen him last. Pale, yes--but at least not pale _green._

"You are quite well, Rawdon? I confess I was alarmed for you when we bade you farewell in South Carolina."

"Never better. It was the heat—that damnable damp and heat. I was at the end of my tether, I confess. A week of so at sea and I was a new man. Of course," he snorted self-consciously, "the new man was promptly captured by the French, but at least I wasn't dying anymore! How was your own journey? You seemed to have entirely evaded the enemy."

"Yes. Luck was with us."

"I am remiss! How is your brave and charming lady? And how is my godson? I must call on him, too, and make certain that his parents are treating him as he deserves!"

"Well—come to dinner tomorrow. Are you able?"

"Yes—stay—I---" he paused, and then his eyes crinkled up in good humor. "Yes. I shall come. At what hour?"

"Would six suit? We shall be very happy to see you. Oh! By the way, my brother is giving a ball on the twenty-sixth. I hope you will attend."

"Thanks, with all my heart! The twenty-sixth? A pleasant change—better to be captive to English ladies than to French prison guards! And how is Mrs. Tavington enjoying London?"

"Very much. She has been out in the country for the past few months, however, at my brother's estate, while the servants in town were inoculated. Since—" It occurred to Tavington that he must say something to Rawdon, who of all people would wonder at the matter. "--since her sister married Lord Fanshawe."

"Her sister!" wondered Lord Rawdon. "I had no idea she had a sister."

"Er—well, her sister is a natural daughter of Mr. Rutledge. In South Carolina, of course, she was in the old man's household, but knowing she would be free in England—"

"Stay—I think I know—that pretty young creature, her maid! She is Mrs. Tavington's _sister_?"

"Yes. She came to England as Miss Laeticia Rutledge, and was shortly thereafter married to Lord Fanshawe."

Rawdon's mouth hung open. Hastily, he remembered his manners and said, "Fanshawe! Is he still alive? The man must be at least a hundred!"

Tavington laughed. "Not quite. He is rather her senior. But you understand, Rawdon," he added, lowering his voice, "that I thought I should ask you, just in case—"

"I'll say nothing of the past," Rawdon assured him instantly. "But you must admit it is a very astonishing circumstance."

"No one is more astonished than I," Tavington replied, rather wryly, "except possibly my wife. The entire business took us entirely by surprise. However, Lady Fanshawe has written to us that she is extremely happy. We expect to see her in London tomorrow."

"The whole world seems to pouring into London," Rawdon remarked. "Tarleton is back in England, and I believe he arrived in London a few days ago. I have not yet seen him, however."

"I only arrived yesterday myself from the country. No doubt we shall soon meet."

"If we take care to be where cards are played and pretty women are to be found."

"I have no objection to cards in moderation, but I fear Tarleton will think me a tiresome old married man—good for nothing but going home early to my wife and child."

"As for me, I envy you. I am in no great hurry to settle, but I can see it might be very much to my taste in a few years."

After another pleasant hour of talk, Tavington took his leave, and went home. With Jane there, Caro and Pen had taken the opportunity to go out together and call on some friend or other. Jane had encouraged them to accept the invitation, saying she wanted to stay home anyway that afternoon. Lucy and Protheroe would join them for dinner, and she had felt that was all the excitement she could bear on the day of her arrival.

She was not in the morning room. She was not in the music room. Tavington went up to her bedchamber, and did not find her there, either. In the little dressing room at the end of the hall he found only her maid.

"Where is Mrs. Tavington?" he asked Pullen, who looked up from her sewing. "No, don't get up. Where is she?"

"Oh, sir!" Pullen said grimly. "That French maid of her ladyship's came knocking, saying that her mistress was at sixes and sevens and that Mrs. Watkins could not give her any more laudanum drops yet. Mrs. Tavington went to see if she could help calm her."

_Jane calm Mamma? How can this be?_ Quickening his step, he hurried to see if Jane required rescuing.

His nose twitched as he entered Mamma's bedroom. He had not been here in a week, and the smell was not improving. Fragile and shrunken, Mamma lay in state in her great bed, a magnificent lace cap overwhelming her head. Jane was seated in a chair by the bedside, reading aloud in French. His mother's wrinkled hands clutched at the satin coverlet like the talons of a bird of prey. Now and then she issued a strange, croaking laugh.

She saw Tavington and called out, a little too loudly, "Come and hear this, my dear, if you please. Miss Grey has been reading to me from the _Memoirs_ of Saint-Simon. Such an amusing story. _Une__ omelette __à l'évêque! _Ha ha! And Mme. de Charlus lost her wig—quite burned off. Read it for Sir Jack, Miss Grey. He dearly loves a laugh."

"Very well, " Jane assented quietly. _"Mme de Charlus soupait un vendredi chez Mme la princesse de Conti… " _

Jane read slowly enough that Tavington could understand most of it. The lady's wig had caught fire from a candle as she reached for the salt, and the Archbishop of Reims, to save her, had snatched it from her head. She had not known she was on fire, and so in reprisal had thrown an egg in his face.

Tavington smiled, and remarked, as Jane finished the passage, "Very amusing indeed, since the French are so vain of their manners and claim no one else has any!"

"True," his mother agreed, a rusty chuckle issuing from deep in her throat. "How fortunate that Miss Grey can read French. That companion of mine is good for nothing," she added, with a spiteful glare at Nurse Watkins, who was calmly knitting in a corner. "She cannot even find my box."

"Which box, Madam?" Tavington asked wearily. Mamma made less sense every day.

Lady Cecily blinked, and her eyes traveled the room, as if searching for something precious. "My box," she whispered. "I must find it."

Mrs. Watkins leaned forward and whispered, "She taken to talking about that box all the time, sir. She says she mustn't lose the papers in it—says that it's a State secret, and there are those who will pay well for it. It worries her, it does."

"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Watkins," Tavington said shortly. "We all know Lady Cecily's mind is drifting. Like as not it is some trifle of twenty years ago. Try to keep her calm. Tell her you have the box, if you must!"

"I tried that, sir, and nothing would do but she must see it. Then she went on about how your father had stolen it and accused me of being his mistress. That's when I called for your wife. Lady Cecily thought she was that Miss Grey and calmed down right quick."

Jane looked sad and tired, and set the book by. "And now I must see to the children, my lady.."

"Yes, yes, the children," Lady Cecily agreed vaguely. "Do something about Caro's penmanship, I pray you. She blots and smears in the ugliest way. You must put a stop to it."

Jane rose, and curtsied slightly. "A lady's hand is indeed important."

She left the room, and Mrs. Watkins came and settled Lady Cecily's pillows about her. She administered the laudanum, and Lady Cecily gave a deep sigh.

Tavington bent and kissed his mother's forehead. "Rest now, Madam."

His mother's eyes shone glassily, her mind already withdrawing into some interior world. Tavington turned and left, wanting to talk to Jane. He shut the door behind him and caught her up in a few steps.

"What was all that?"

"There were difficulties earlier and Mrs. Watkins asked me for assistance, as she is accustomed to calling upon your sisters when your mother becomes too excited. Apparently Lady Cecily takes me for some governess named Miss Grey. Do you remember such a person?"

"Not I. She must have left when I was quite young. Mamma went through quite a number of governesses over the years."

"Apparently she liked Miss Grey. I know it is wrong to lie, but it seemed to uselessly cruel to argue with her. If she likes me as the governess, that is better than disliking me as a daughter-in-law." After a moment, she added, "I was sorry to see how much more ill she looked. And she plagued me about that box. The maid said she asks for it constantly, but since she calls her Paulette, it must have been something important a long time ago."

"Yes, Paulette was three maids ago, back when Mamma was Lady of the Bedchamber to the Dowager Princess of Wales."

"Was she really? To the King's Mother? I did not know that."

"It did not last long. She had to resign it when my father was in his last illness—about 1761, it would be. And the Dowager is dead now, so there is no longer any connection to the Court. Besides we hated it—her children, I mean. Mamma was gone for long periods of time. It did not matter so much to me, because I was in school, but it was a great burden on my sisters."

----

Tavington enjoyed his first dinner back in London greatly. He had guessed, but not fully realized how Mamma had repressed his sisters' spirits. Lucy and Protheroe arrived, and it had all been a little like the olden days, when as children they had dined together with a few little friends, playing uproariously at being grown-up ladies and gentlemen. The dinner conversation had a touch of unreality about it, but Tavington would grow used to it in time. John, graciously giving up his place at table to his younger brother, talked of this or that Parliamentary committee. Caro mentioned her book: she was making a fair copy that could be sent to a publisher. Penelope had invited fellow patrons of the Magdalen to tea on Friday. Lucy and Protheroe related stories of the ridiculous legal situations of his clients. Tavington himself faced Jane down the length of the dining table, occasionally wondering how this little girl had talked him into playing house, but rather liking the game, really.

The main topic of conversation was the ball that was planned for the twenty-sixth. The ball was technically being given by Sir John Tavington, with Mrs. William Tavington as hostess. Between them, the brothers had decided that it would be more tactful for Sir John to give a ball in his brother's honor. The display of the new portrait would seem less like one man's vanity, and more like a family celebration of a returned hero.

Jane had resigned herself to a black ball gown. She discussed it thoroughly with Pullen. At this, her first London ball, she must make a good appearance, and she had gone with Pullen and her sisters-in-law that very day to order splendid toilettes. It seemed wasteful and stupid to fill her wardrobe with black gowns, so she was having something made that could easily be modified. A gown could look entirely different with a fresh stomacher or different trimming. Their income was good one, but Jane did not intend to spend it recklessly. She hoped they could put at least a little money aside every year for the children.

The guest list was large. John thought fifty a good round number to have, and so they were inviting rather more than that, allowing for people's prior engagements and absences from town. Not just Alan St. Leger, but his entire family were invited: the Marquess and Marchioness of Melmerby, their eldest son Lord Thurston and his wife, and their daughters, the Ladies Helena, Beatrice, Imogen, Isabel, and Sylvia St. Leger.

"Very pretty, good-natured girls," Caroline told Jane. "The youngest is rather—young—to be out, but I like them. I'm glad to hear they are coming to town. We do not see nearly enough of them. Their estate is in Cumberland, and it is a long journey for them."

And then there were the obvious invitations: to Lord and Lady Fanshawe, to the Tazewells, to a group of John's friends from White's, to the Parrotts –

"We must invite them," Penelope sighed. "They were Mamma's friends so long. It would look odd if we did not."

"Let us not forget Uncle Colchester," Caroline reminded them. "He is in Dorset with Bill and Kitty, and no doubt is enjoying the country there, but perhaps they all might come for William's sake."

Tavington felt rather guilty at that point, and had caught Jane's forced smile.. It would have to happen someday. Uncle Colchester genuinely loved his nephews and nieces, and Tavington wanted him there. He had no idea what he would feel at seeing Kitty again, but for Jane's sake, he would not make an ass of himself. If he did, he would not be surprised if Jane slapped Kitty's face and then his own. Discretion must be the watchword.

Penelope had a number of friends she wished to invite—people she knew through her charitable concerns."And of course, let us invite dear Mr. Bellini."

Caroline laughed, "That would be pleasant. But you all are forgetting—we must certainly invite Sir Joshua, the artist responsible the portrait. We must invite him and make much of him!"

Jane was surprised by the number of people who were named: some cousins on the Tavington side of whom he had never told her, Cabinet ministers and Court officials and their wives and sons and daughters. Tavington himself put in a word for Lord Rawdon, and a few other officer friends of his, back from America.

"No doubt, with the new arrivals, there will be others we shall all wish to invite," John agreed indulgently. "There should be plenty of supper and dancing room for all!"

After dinner, the children were brought down to be kissed again. Ashbury remembered Lucy and Protheroe from Christmas, and was happy to see them, but was disappointed that they had not brought Ned.

"Another time, Ash, I promise," Lucy assured him.

Too soon, the children were whisked away, and Lucy sat looking after them, smiling to herself. "I had thought to receive on Thursday," Jane told her, "Or we could come to you—whatever is convenient. I really ought to go to you next, of course."

"Oh, let's not be so formal," cried Lucy. "Thursday would be delightful. We shall come right after Ned has his dinner, and bother you all afternoon."

"Do, dearest!" Penelope agreed. "It is so much better, since one of us has to be nearby for Mamma's sake. If you come here, we can all be together!"

Jane looked over at Tavington at that moment, and they exchanged a look of complete understanding. _Together._ It was a sweet moment, and one that they had much to say about later that night, when their guests were gone...

-----

On Tuesday morning Tavington took Jane into the study to begin their work on his memoirs. There was not much writing done. Jane had hardly seen the study, and wanted to look at everything in it. Then there were papers to assemble. They talked over an outline of the work, and what exactly Tavington was aiming at. They laughed, reminiscing over their time together in the backcountry. So much had happened, so much had changed since those days, and yet they were less than a year ago! Jane jotted down some amusing anecdotes that must not be forgotten. Still laughing, they joined the rest of the family in the morning room.

While they were there, a note arrived.

_Dear sister, _

_We have just arrived. I am so tired. I long to see you, but Lord Fanshawe says that you must wait upon me, not the other way. He is most insistent, and I do not like to go against him. Please call tomorrow if you can. I have so much to tell you, and forgive me for seeming haughty in not coming to you at once._

_Your loving sister, _

_Letty _

Jane read through the note and frowned. Sensing everyone's eyes on her, she looked up, with a slight laugh. "It is from Lady Fanshawe. She is safely home, and begs me to call tomorrow. She says she is very tired. I hope she is not ill."

"Oh, my, yes!" Penelope sympathized. "Her condition, of course! I long to see dear Lady Fanshawe, but I suspect the two of you would like to have a little time to yourselves. I shall call another time, when she has had some time to catch her breath."

"I, too," Caroline said, her eyes still fixed on her manuscript. "It will be so pleasant. Perhaps they could dine with us."

"I shall certainly ask them," Jane promised.

But tonight was for Lord Rawdon, who was a very good guest indeed. He arrived punctually, and civilly expressed his sympathy to Jane at her father's death, but was otherwise his cheerful self. Jane wished briefly he were not so young. If only a pair of gentlemen of mature years were to come to sweep away Caro and Pen! She loved her sisters-in-law. While she would miss them if they were not in the house, it seemed such a waste of intelligent, sweet-natured, attractive women to be alone. _It's not that unusual, of course. There are more nice women than men to deserve them. _

The children were brought down for a visit after dinner, and Lord Rawdon reacquainted himself with his little godson.

"He's looking well. The country air agrees with him—and with you, Mrs. Tavington!"

"Yes—I think it did," Jane agreed, with a smile. "It is a wonderful place."

"And these are your brothers, I hear, Mrs. Tavington? What fine little fellows!"

He grinned at Ash, who grinned back, and showed him Red Horse, as a mark of high favor. The conversation canvassed sea voyages, and the boys' arduous journey, and Rawdon's own misfortunes.

"It will be some time before I set foot on a ship, I assure you!"

Moll took the little ones back up to the nursery, and the talk turned to other things. Rawdon teased Jane about her exploits on the King's highway. Her smile became tense. Everyone, it seemed, knew the story of the initial attack, but almost no one had heard about Carver's attempted revenge, which was much more on Jane's mind. Her family looked at her uneasily, but Jane did not want to talk about it. Even remembering it caused her pain.

She changed the subject. "London is to be full of old army acquaintances. I heard you say that Colonel Tarleton is back. Are any senior officers remaining with the army?"

"Hanger has said something about returning to America, now that he is recovered from his illness. Sir Henry is still there, of course, but perhaps he might be replaced in the next few months."

Tavington looked grave. "I own myself deeply disappointed in Sir Henry."

"Well," shrugged Rawdon, "there's plenty of blame to go around. The best revenge on the rebels is to live well ourselves!"

"Hear! Hear!" agreed John lifting a glass in salute. "I hear Will has already invited you to our little ball on the twenty-sixth. Will's portrait from Reynolds is arriving any day, and we can all admire the painted version of him!"

"A happy occasion! I long to see the picture. I am thinking of having my likeness taken, as well. I now wish we had had a group portrait made, those first few weeks in South Carolina. So many are gone—so many scattered. It would have been something to remember. Webster gone, Cochrane gone—"

"But Lord Cornwallis shall always be with us," Tavington observed, rather sourly.

"He's not so bad, Tavington! He has suffered a great deal. He'll be in London soon himself, but he needed a little time with his children first. I heard a rumor, my dear fellow, that you were at work on a history of the Southern Campaign. I hope you treat the Lord General kindly."

"It is no rumor. I am, with the help of my good wife—" he bowed to Jane—"in the process of writing not so much a history as a personal memoir. After all, I did not see the entire campaign. Some other man must tell that tale. I planned to ask you for the loan of any papers you may have relating to that time, for of course I lost everything at the Cowpens"

"I'll see what I have," Rawdon said readily. "If you are not planning a campaign history, what do you intend?"

"A mere pleasant, patriotic trifle: a panegyric to the loyalty of the provincial troops and their suffering, with the added spice of camp tales and even a soupcon of romance! There will be no sniping and no character assassinations in my book—thought I do not plan to be kind to the enemy."

"You must sell by subscription, Tavington, and I shall be your first purchaser. I'm glad you're not attempting a diatribe against Lord Cornwallis. It would be very impolitic as the present time. The King thinks very well of his lordship, and no doubt will think well of you, too, if you do not descend to controversy and name-calling."

"There plenty of that in the Commons!" John remarked.

"Well, there's an equal amount in the Lords, or so I'm told," Rawdon laughed.

-----

Jane was sick with impatience the next morning. She was dying to see Letty, but had to consider the daily schedule of Fanshawe House. If his lordship breakfasted at eleven, she could hardly barge in upon them too early. Instead, she had fixed upon one o'clock as the hour of her arrival, and had told Scoggins to have the carriage brought round at a quarter of one.

After that, the time crawled by. Tavington left, for a meeting with General Tazewell and other appointments. Caro was writing. Pen was sitting with her mother. Jane spent time with the children, and wrote some letters, her mind flickering back and forth, wondering how Letty would look, and what she would say. She stopped again at the nursery. Ash ran to her, nearly bowling her over, wanting her to look_, look_ at the cup-and-ball he had found in the toy chest. Jane kissed him and told him it was a splendid plaything.

"Where you going?" the boy asked, overhearing the women's talk.

"I am going out to see—" she puzzled briefly over how to put this "---your other sister, Lady Fanshawe—Sister Letty."

A surprised blink. Ash clearly had no idea who this person might be. Jane schooled herself to patience and sat down. "You have another sister, Ash. She is my sister and your sister. She is my age. Her name is Letty, and she married Lord Fanshawe, so now she is Lady Fanshawe." Trying to say something that might please him, she told him, "She's very pretty."

Ash was still, thinking this over. "Where is she?"

"She lives in Lord Fanshawe's house, Ash. I am going to see her today. She was away traveling, and she is back in London now."

"Can I go, too?"

Sensing a fit of the sullens coming on, Jane said quickly. "Not today, Ash. She will come soon to visit. She is not feeling too well after her long ride in the carriage. You remember how tired it made you!"

He thrust out his lower lip, considering. Finally he nodded, and went back to praising his toy. Jane gave him another kiss and got up to leave.

"My regards to her ladyship," Moll said, frowning over her sewing. "Reckon she'll look mighty fine."

"Yes, I imagine she will!"

Jane dressed very carefully, tremendously grateful to Penelope for the well-cut visiting habit that she could don. Pullen sensed her nervousness, and took special care with her hair and cosmetics. The habit, the shoes, the gloves, the hat placed _just so_: everything was inspected minutely. Jane studied herself in the long looking-glass and felt that despite in all being black, her clothing was really very handsome. She must always let Pen and Pullen have their way about her hats, for she could never trim them so cleverly.

Finally feeling that she would do, she went down to the carriage to see how marriage had dealt with Letty, rather excited at the idea of being her first visitor.

As it happened, however, she found she was not the first visitor—nor even among the first. She stepped down from the carriage and told Scoggins to come for her at half-past four, and then was admitted to the grandeur of Lord Fanshawe's domain.

It was a most magnificent house: more a little palace than a house, perhaps. Marble floors, gilded pilasters, painted ceilings, works of art were her first dazed impression. She was received by the butler very respectfully. Obviously, Letty had told him she was expected.

Instead of going down the hall to the intimate little parlor Letty had described in a letter, she was led upstairs to a splendid drawing room, full of people. She felt a pang of disappointment. She would not be able to see her sister alone.

She was announced, and Letty appeared, a black swan in her splendid mourning, and came to her, hands outstretched. "Oh, my dear sister! I've missed you so much!"

Jane felt tears burn behind her eyelids, and shook them away, not wanting the kind of havoc that they would wreak on her carefully-applied eye paint. Letty seemed more beautiful than ever: clad in yards of black watered silk and yards of fragile lace. Her jewelry was all pearls: pearls of creamy iridescence and of all sizes. Jane was startled at the size of one of them that was displayed on her sister's bosom. If swung on its golden chain, it looked like it could have felled an ox.

"My dearest, dearest sister," she cried. "It's been so long!"

They embraced, and kissed each other's cheek, breathing in the other's familiar, loved scent, and recalling all the days of their lives in an instant.

But they were not allowed to enjoy the moment indefinitely. Lord Fanshawe was approaching, to bow to Jane and comment smilingly on the fair sight of so much sisterly affection. Jane was conscious of his appraising glance, a raised eyebrow, and a certain judicious approval in his estimate. She could not know that Lord Fanshawe was infinitely relieved that she had not made an eyesore of herself in his drawing room. In fact, he liked the visiting habit quite well, and was glad that Mrs. Tavington did not look entirely unworthy to be Lady Fanshawe's sister.

She was then presented to a mob of well-dressed people whom she did not know, and whose names were a jumble to her. One pale and pregnant lady was the Viscountess Carteret: Jane sensed that Letty liked her. Her husband, an older man with a rather pleasant countenance, stood behind her, bowing civilly. She met Mr. This, and Lady That, and Sir Oliver Didn't-Catch-the Name. Like a sullen pink rosebud amidst the tall lilies, a very young and pretty girl occupied a little chair in a corner, and was introduced as Miss James.

Then, to her pleasure, a tall and robust figure emerged from the rest, and she felt herself smile more happily.

"Mr. Bellini! Well met!"

"Signora!" He bowed deeply. "Permit me to express in person my condolences."

"Oh—yes!" Sometimes Jane forgot all about the reason for her mourning. _Papa is dead. _"Most kind."

"Come and sit by me, sister!" Letty cried, taking her by the hand and leading her to a long and luxurious sofa. They sat, the silks of their garments rustling together. Letty squeezed her hand, giving her a glance that Jane interpreted as wishing they could speak privately.

Jane took the opportunity to whisper. "I shall be at home tomorrow. Do come. Come early."

"I shall," Letty whispered back. Then they were swept up in the general conversation.

Jane was interested in Miss James, who seemed to belong to nobody there, and was perched on her little chair as if expecting to be chased away. Knowing nothing of the girl, she could not ask her who in this crowd were her parents, or how she knew her sister. Lady Carteret, however, was easier to get to know. The lady appeared ill, but happy to be there.

"Your sister is such a dear friend of mine," Jane was told. "So lovely and so natural. I quite dote on her."

"I am glad my sister has found a good friend. You met in Bath, I conclude? She wrote of how pleasant she found it."

"Yes, indeed! We were quite inseparable. She spoke often of you. How I envied her. I should have loved a sister."

"It is certainly the sweetest of bonds. We had never been apart before her marriage, and I found the separation difficult."

"But now you are here in London together! I promised her I should have a dinner party for her. She shall sing, and I trust that you shall not deny us the opportunity to hear you play. I have heard from Mr. Bellini of your talent!"

"He is generous to say so, but yes, I love music and would gladly play for you."

"Excellent! I shall write to tell you the day. It must be soon, you see—" she grew paler still, and Jane was concerned, wondering if she was about to faint.

"My dear," boomed Lord Carteret's voice above Jane's head, "perhaps we should go. You look very tired."

"Oh, dear. Perhaps so. I am so happy to have met you, Mrs. Tavington."

"And I to have met you, Lady Carteret."

People came and went throughout the afternoon, but Jane saw that little Miss James remained through it all, saying little, but watching everything. From time to time an older lady or gentleman would come by her chair and address her kindly. Jane could not hear the words, but saw the girl rolling her eyes when the speakers' backs were turned. She was, nonetheless, a beautiful girl: dressed charmingly in a strawberry taffeta that set off her naturally blooming cheeks and her wealth of honey-blond hair. Her eyes were large and bright blue. The roundness of them, combined with the perfect arch of the girl's brows, gave her the appearance of a wide-eyed innocent. Jane though her only flaw was her nose: a pert little nose, turned up in a perpetual dainty sneer. It robbed the face as a whole of the dignity it should have had. Jane admitted to herself that she, with a long, thin axe blade decorating her face, had no business condemning anyone else's nose.

Tea was served: an elegant tea. Exquisite little cakes appeared, covered with marchpane and crystallized violets. Jane wondered if everything in the house was a work of art. Bellini sat down at the grand pianoforte and sang an aria by Gluck.

It was all very delightful, but Jane really wanted to speak privately with Letty, and it was apparent that this was the one thing that would not happen. Other people came by: people who had heard of Jane's encounter with the highwaymen. Jane heard them talking about her and laughed to herself.

"—So little—quite a delicate creature. One can hardly credit it!"

"—But indeed it is true. I heard that she fought by her husband's side in America. They met when he rescued her in the course of a battle—"

"—Have you not heard? One of the scoundrels attempted revenge and Colonel Tavington hacked him to death! Such a handsome man, but so ferocious—"

"—I know! His eyes---"

Jane stopped laughing, reminded of rough hands on her throat. Letty had not heard the story, it seemed, and must be told. When applied to, Jane confirmed the tale, but made light of her danger, as far as possible. Letty did not appear to be deceived by her sister's casual tone.

"I'm glad the Colonel killed him," she said, her sweet voice strangely hard.

Lord Fanshawe agreed. "It saves the nation the cost of a rope, certainly. How well you are looking, Mrs. Tavington, despite your adventures. Or perhaps because of them? Does the _frisson_ of danger brighten you eye?"

Jane laughed. "It was the sort of adventure that is extremely disagreeable to experience, I assure you. It is true that once recovered from, the memory of one's escape can be pleasant."

There were nods and murmurs of agreement. Jane's cheerful dismissal of the affair made a good impression.

The conversation changed to the pleasures of Bath, and Letty brought up the beauty of the restored Roman baths, and her new passion for all things antique.

"My sister," she informed the company, "has reason to believe that there may be ancient remains at Wargrave."

Fanshawe was actually quite interested in the subject. "Has there been an attempt to examine the site?"

Jane was glad she had saved old Doctor Crumby's papers. "The beginnings of one, at least. The previous vicar of the parish was something of an antiquarian, and left copious notes. The Reverend Mr. Bordon is considering pursuing the quest, with the aid of Sir John and my husband. It has believed for sometime that there was a Roman villa situated on Old Wargrave Hill. Above it were a Saxon fortress and a Norman castle. The stonework of the foundation is exposed in places and the layers are quite different. Perhaps in the spring Sir John will permit an excavation."

"Perhaps there are statues or marble pillars?" Letty suggested.

Bellini appeared to find the discussion amusing, in a rather ironic way. "In my homeland, one is constantly coming across the traces of the past. Often they are no more than a crumbling plaster wall or a carved roof beam. Sometimes, however they can change a man's life—"

"—Sometimes?" Jane encouraged him, hoping for a story.

He looked at her, considering. Then he granted her wish.

"_Ebbene. _A ploughman, a poor man, lives in a little house with his two young sons. Every day he goes to the field to plough. One day, in the field he is stopped by a great stone in the furrow. He heaves it aside. His boys come to see—curious little boys, full of mischief. They turn over the stone and see the face of a beautiful woman. _Un miracolo!_ The Blessed Virgin has appeared to bless the fields. They carry the heavy head to the church and the priest chases them away for bringing to him a pagan goddess. The priest keeps the head in the baptistery, and the boys go often to admire it, but one day it is gone. A rich _cavaliere_ has come and paid the priest for it in gold. The boys tell their father, the poor ploughman, and they all go out at night and dig here—there—and there—" Bellini mimed the search with expressive gestures. "—by the light of torches they search, and their spades strike buried marble like music. The body of the goddess is found—much of it, at least! The older boy is sent to find the rich cavaliere to offer him the rest of the statue.

"The poor man is paid well for his prize. He takes the gold and buries it in a place no man knows, and tells only his older son. With some of the money he sends his sons to school in a town far away. Meanwhile, the rich cavaliere has had the statue—it is of the Goddess Venus-- put together once more and displays it proudly in his palazzo. All come to see and admire, and they ask him where he found such a masterpiece. 'In such-and-such a village. A poor ploughman found it in his field.' He tells them how much he paid—no—he tells them a higher price—to make himself greater. Word comes to the little village that the poor man is rich and has a box of gold. Now the poor man find that gold can be a misfortune, for everyone comes to his door: the priest to ask for an offering, the landlord who claims that it was his, as the statue was found on his land—"

Here many of the assembled—especially the landlords present—nodded their agreement with the gentleman's point of view.

"—and one night some robbers, who have heard that the poor man is not so poor and has a great box, bursting with gold, in his house. In the morning, all is silent, for the man is dead, after refusing to tell the robbers where the gold was hidden away. The little house is half-destroyed by the robbers, searching, searching. No one can find the gold, though many try, digging holes in the field, cracking the plaster in the house. The priest writes to the oldest boy at school, to say that his father is dead, and that it was the judgement of God on him for his greed. If the boys know where the gold is hidden, they must tell the priest, and the gold will pay for masses to save their father's soul."

"Infamous wickedness!" a lady exclaimed.

"The boys do not reply to the priest. They stay in school, far away, for years. No one in the village ever sees them again. No one recognizes two strange young men who ride through the village one day in springtime. They stop by the fountain in the piazza, to water their horses. They ride away. It grows dark, and no one sees them return, and seek out the old ruined house. They take spades they have strapped to their horses, and they dig quickly and quietly in the old midden. The stink is terrible. They look in the place the older brother knows and find two old clay vessels, broken and full of rotten olives. No one would give these dirty pots a second look. The older brother, however, takes a shirt to muffle the sound and cracks the filthy pots very carefully. He lifts a shard of the pot and sees the gleam of a golden coin. Within the pots, lining the sides, is thick, hard wax. And sticking to the wax is the money the cavaliere paid for the statue of the goddess.

"There is no time to melt the wax. The dirty pieces of the pots are gathered up. Not one piece is missing. They are loaded into bags and tied to the horses. The young men ride away from their village and do not look back. And that is the story of the treasure of Venus. It brought good fortune to some and death to others."

There was a rustle of applause. "A capital tale!" cried one gentleman. "Mrs. Tavington, perhaps there is a pot of gold under your ruins!"

Lord Fanshawe was very amused. "If so, it would be a bold man who would try to steal it from Mrs. Tavington. She might shoot him with her pistol!"

There was hearty laughter at this sally. Jane felt it incumbent on her to smile, though the remark seemed a subtle dig at the time Jane had fired upon her brother-in-law. Only Miss James did not laugh, but rolled her eyes again. Jane studied her curiously. The girl immediately realized she had been observed, and looked away, blushing. She straightened up on the little chair very self-consciously.

Lord Fanshawe noticed Jane's interest in the girl. "Miss James is my ward, Madam. She has been attending school here in the metropolis, but her studies are now complete. I have withdrawn her from the school—"

Here Jane noticed that Miss James suddenly looked very miserable.

"---and as there is now a Lady Fanshawe in residence at my home, she will live here, and provide her ladyship with her companionship. A solution that will be pleasant for all, I trust."

"That is most kind of you, my lord," Jane said, not knowing what else to say. The girl did not appear happy to be here, and Letty was smiling dutifully throughout her husband's speech. _I must find out what she really thinks about this. _

The clock struck the half-hour. To her dismay, Jane found that it was time to leave, and she had hardly had a word with her sister. She rose to take her leave, and was delayed by the many people wanting to talk to her. Letty kissed her again, and Fanshawe bowed graciously. Miss James bobbed a curtsey, staring at the floor. She glanced up to find Jane's eyes on her. Without the self-control of her elders, she shot Jane a little hostile, sulky look, and then bit her lip when Jane raised a brow. _This is going to be interesting. Possibly very unpleasant, but interesting,_ Jane thought, climbing into her carriage.

-----

That same afternoon, Tavington found himself in the enormous studio of Sir Joshua Reynolds. His portrait was finished, and had hung there as the varnish dried. There had been some foolish mistake by an assistant, and part of the draperies at the edge of the painting had needed redoing. It was complete now, and Tavington had come to give his final acceptance of the work. He was greeted, and shown into the high-ceilinged room, full of other pictures.

His own portrait commanded the observer, set as it was against the far wall, with rays of cool winter light illuminating his face. He could not judge fairly if it was a good likeness. It was a very striking picture, however: with the rearing horse behind him, and his hand on his sword, it was full of action and energy.

He paused to consider the horse. It was not the horse he had ridden to battle: not poor Troilus, stabbed through the heart and left to feed the crows. He had only asked that the horse be a chestnut, as like in color and markings to Troilus as possible. Reynolds, accustomed to the whims and fancies of wealthy patrons, had indulged him. Nonetheless, it was not Troilus.

There was a soldier-groom in the picture, his back to the viewer. In Carolina, their grooms had mostly been freed blacks—young lads who had found a home in the British Army. This groom was clearly white, though his face was not visible. Reynolds had thought the groom needed to be in uniform to make the military theme consistent, and the black grooms had not worn the uniform. Tavington could live with that.

He had insisted on the being painted in the uniform of the Green Dragoons. While the garb of the Dragoon Guards was extremely elegant, Tavington wanted the painting to commemorate his wartime services. He wondered if it was suitable for the ballroom. He had done his hair in the same plain style he had worn it throughout the American campaign, not allowing poor Doggery to curl it or powder it in the least.

"It's a _portrait_, sir!" the valet had protested. "You're supposed to look your best! It's for _posterity!"_

"It's the way I looked at war. The curls look ridiculous with the helmet."

He had shown Doggery what he looked like in the helmet, and the valet had finally agreed, remarking that he did not know why his master had worn such an ugly piece of haberdashery anyway.

Tavington had liked the helmet, though the plumes tended to look very sad when rained upon. His new metal helmet, with the horsehair crest, stood up better to bad weather. The old helmet looked very well in the picture, at least, making him look even taller than he was. He had enjoyed posing in his old uniform. He cocked his head, wondering if he had really gone into battle with such a silly smirk on his face…

"A magnificent piece," said a low, vibrant voice beside him: a lovely woman's voice.

Tavington started and turned to look at the companion who had appeared beside him, like a fairy in an old tale. He knew his jaw had dropped, but did not care. He had never seen such a vision. She was a little taller than Jane, but not much. Her skin glowed from within, the most perfect skin he had ever seen: not painted white, but a natural cream that begged to be touched. He was completely ensnared by her eyes: they were pale green, the color of translucent jade, and fixed him with a limpid, amused regard. The woman was dressed in the height of fashion, and even a little beyond. He had not seen that particular kind of hat before, but the buckle—clearly ornamented with diamonds, not paste jewels—showed her both in command of wealth and confident in her own style.

Collecting himself, he bowed. "William Tavington, Madam, At your service."

She gave him her little gloved hand, and he kissed it. "I am Mary Robinson. Mrs. Mary Robinson. You may have heard of me."

He looked her over with admiration and curiosity. The famous Perdita, the cast-off mistress of the Prince of Wales, the lost darling of the London theatre! St. Leger had spoken of her beauty, but he had been too cool in his praise.

Tavington realized that he was still holding her hand, and let it go, murmuring, "Honored."

The fair lady turned to admire his portrait. "Such a likeness! So full of martial spirit! Truly, 'none but the brave deserves the fair!'"

A nervous laugh escaped him. "Not all ladies would agree with you. Are you here to sit for Sir Joshua?"

"Indeed I am. Do you think he will like my costume?"

"What man would not, who could call himself a man?"

"You are too gallant, sir."

Tavington was very much of two minds about this lovely creature. One half of his mind was wondering how to find the closest bed and ravage her instantly. The other half was watching the first half, and shouting, '_No, you fool! Remember Jane? She'll never forgive you!" _

There was, luckily, no bed in sight.

Even more fortunately, the last person he expected to see suddenly swaggered into the room.

"Tavington!" shouted Banastre Tarleton in elation. "You! Here! This is a merry meeting!"

"My dear Tarleton," cried Tavington, feeling rescued from utter disaster, "How good to see you!"

Tarleton's eyes were immediately on Mary Robinson. His jaw dropped, too. He bowed.

"And who is this? I pray you, madam, to say if you are a goddess, or some mortal woman!"

It was not a bad paraphrase of shipwrecked Ulysses' question to Princess Nausicaa, Tavington decided, though he himself had never said anything so damned silly to a lady. He turned to Mrs. Robinson, to see what she would make of it.

Ever the actress—and a well-educated one--she curtseyed, and responded sweetly, "'Stranger, you seem no evil man, nor foolish.'"

"Hahahaha!" laughed Tarleton, a little wildly, approaching her as if to seize her in his arms. "No, really, Tavington, introduce us instantly, I beg you."

"Mrs. Robinson, may I present to you Colonel Banastre Tarleton? Tarleton, Mrs. Robinson."

There. It was done. He had escaped. Tavington extricated himself, and headed off to speak to Sir Joshua, wondering what would transpire between the two of them.

Tarleton called after him absently. "Good to see you, Tavington! We'll meet later at Robinson's."

He and the exquisite young woman were looking into each other's eyes, plainly unaware that Tarleton had misspoken. _What? _Tavington laughed to himself. _Did he mean White's or Brook's? No matter. Somehow I think he'll be at someplace that can very likely be described as "Robinson's." This is going to be interesting. I must tell Jane all about it._

* * *

**Note: **George III did not inherit the throne directly from his father, but from his grandfather, George II. Thus, his father (who predeceased George II) and his mother were the Prince and Princess of Wales. 

_Une__ omelette __à l'évêque--_A bishop omelet

As I plunge into Part III of _Tavington's Heiress,_ I wish to express my thanks to the readers who have supported me. If you like the story, or have ideas to improve it, or simply wish me to continue, I ask that you leave a review. If you wish a reply, either log in or leave your email address. Some of you long-time reviewers, of course, are already well known to me!

**Next—Chapter 55: To Visit the Queen **


	55. To Visit the Queen

**Chapter 55: To Visit the Queen**

"Oh, yes!" said Jane. "Letty looked marvelous. She was wearing some amazing pearls, but we could hardly have a word together. It was such a mob! And Lord Fanshawe has a female ward, it seems, who will be living with them now." Jane sipped her after dinner tea, thinking about her meeting with Letty that afternoon.

"A ward?" asked Penelope, very interested. "I confess I did not know there was such a person! Caro, did you know that Lord Fanshawe had a ward?"

Caroline raised her brows skeptically, looking at moment, Jane thought, very like her brother.

"Lord Fanshawe's name has been connected over the years with a great many young people. There was that young man who was said to be his son—the one who was involved with those other young men in that horrid scandal. I believe Lord Fanshawe sent him out to Africa. There has been talk about some of the children born on his estate. Forgive me, Jane, but you know that Lord Fanshawe has not lived a blameless life. Did the young lady resemble him?"

"A little, perhaps. She is very fair and has blue eyes. She is quite pretty. I can't say that I took one look and cried, 'Ha! That is Lord Fanshawe's daughter!'"

"It would have been very odd if you did!" Penelope observed, very solemnly. A pause, and the three of them burst out laughing.

Tavington and Sir John joined them at that moment, and were pleasantly puzzled to find such proper ladies so merry.

"Was it something we said?" Tavington asked, brow raised. Jane started laughing again.

"Or something we did?" John wondered, flinging himself into a favorite chair.

"Not at all, " said Jane, trying to compose herself. "We were speaking of my visit to my sister today, and trying to deduce who Miss James, Lord Fanshawe's 'ward' might really be."

"I think it's clear she his natural daughter," Caroline reasoned. "If she were some other relation, especially a legitimate one, he would have explained it all thoroughly. When no one speaks of it, it is a sure sign of a natural child."

"Very likely," John agreed equably. "Is she pretty?"

"Yes," Jane admitted. "She's very young—perhaps fifteen or sixteen. She was not very—well, actually she was rather sullen and rude—carefully behind Lord Fanshawe's back, of course. I gathered that she was unhappy to leave school. Letty was making the best of it, naturally, but I can hardly think such a girl will be a satisfactory companion. And—oh, dear! Letty is coming this afternoon! I wonder if she will have to bring Miss James along?" _How disappointing! I shall never be able to talk privately with Letty if that girl is sitting there the entire time._

"I think I can promise that Miss James will be thoroughly engrossed," Caroline promised, with a sly smile.

"Yes, indeed!" Penelope agreed brightly. "We shall ask her all about her school, and have her play the instrument, and cram her with cake. She will be too occupied to eavesdrop on your conversation with your sister!"

The two men laughed. "It might be worth missing a debate, Will, to hear those women at their plotting!"

"Actually, perhaps I can be back sometime after three," Tavington considered. "I would like to see how Letty is, myself."

"Heavens!" Caroline laughed. "You might terrify Miss James out of her senses."

Jane said nothing, but thought a good fright might be salutary for such a spoiled, sulky young girl as Miss James seemed to be. She forced herself to say, "I really know nothing of the girl. She might simply have been overwhelmed, yesterday, but I confess all that eye-rolling did not impress me favorably. Perhaps she will improve on acquaintance."

-----

She did not.

Lucy arrived first, with Ned in tow, bringing her pleasant nurserymaid to assist Moll. The little boy was taken upstairs and a thrilled Ash chattered to him eagerly, while Rambler sniffed at the little boy, and evidently recalled him as a rightful member of the pack. The ladies left the boys at their play and their talk, and went downstairs to join Caro and Pen.

Just after one, Letty made her entrance in a gorgeous mourning ensemble, wearing a vast and gloomy hat. Miss James accompanied her in a pretty confection of grey and pink. They were shown into the drawing room, and Jane had no eyes for anyone but Letty in the first moments.

Caroline, however, did not fail to observe Miss James' faint sneer at the sight of the sisters embracing once again. Penelope and Lucy saw it too, and each caught her own sister's eye. _A difficult girl, at a difficult age,_ was the message they silently agreed upon. Nonetheless, they spoke kindly to the girl, and then they all kissed Letty very affectionately.

Letty had so much to tell them: the wonders of Salton Park, the delights of Bath, the beauties of the night sky seen through a large telescope, the gaiety of the theatre. She gave them a short description of it all, and then wanted to hear more about Jane's experience with Carver.

Jane made her own tale equally short, but mentioned the treachery of Porter, and the terrible fate of his family. Letty pitied little Deborah Porter, and wanted to help her.

"I shall send her some books to amuse her. I'm sure she lost everything."

"Nearly everything but what she stood up in, poor girl. She is a very nice child, and very deserving. I'm sure a book or two would be very welcome. I hope she likes the school."

This was the opening Caroline had waited for. "Miss James, I hear that you have only recently come to us from the schoolroom. Whose school did you attend?"

These words were clearly the key to young Miss James' heart. A torrent of words followed: about Mrs. Trilling and her most exclusive school, about all the girls who were Miss James' special friends: girls named Sophronia, Louisa, Belinda, Miranda, Cecilia. There was even a Mary mentioned, which made Jane smile a little, wondering how a simple Mary fared amongst the grander names.

Miss James, by her own account, had been a leader among them, both in fashion and in accomplishments. She had been on the point of receiving a school prize for penmanship—a volume of poetical maxims for good conduct . She felt cruelly cheated of her just reward, and missed her schoolmates dreadfully. She told them about the latest rage for taking likenesses, and how she had excelled in drawing. The discussion moved to a table, when Miss James was provided with pencils, and she set to work, drawing the Tavington sisters in the most becoming pose.

With the girl happily occupied, Jane and Letty were free to speak in whispers of what was really important to them.

"Are you well?" Jane asked anxiously. "When is the child due?"

"In August, perhaps. That is what Nurse Gloake thought—a very good woman who attended me in Bath. I hope I find someone as nice here in London. His lordship speaks of doctors, but I hope he will not insist."

Briefly she described poor Lady Carteret's sufferings, under the care of the odious Doctor Malahyde.

"How horrible!" Jane sympathized. "And how ridiculous! It is hard to believe that educated people can be so taken in!"

"Well, they are!" Letty assured her. "I wouldn't have such a man attending me for anything! It's so immodest, anyway. But how are you?" She asked, very softly, "Is the Colonel treating you better now?"

"Yes," Jane whispered back. "He has become quite kind now. We both enjoyed our time at Wargrave so much, and he was so fierce in my defense when I was attacked, and so gentle afterwards. We are quite happy now. I hope everything stays as it is, now that we are in London. Of course, it helps that Lady Cecily is not interfering. She, poor woman, believes me to be the governess of years past, and tolerates me quite well when I visit her. I do not believe she can live much longer."

"Poor lady! Perhaps I could pay my compliments to her—but no—I do not want to take Harmonia to see her. I don't think she is accustomed to sick people or old people, and she might be frightened—"

"Or rude," Jane said dryly.

Letty turned her back to Miss James, obviously wanting to avoid any possibility of the girl overhearing. Jane thought it unlikely, as the Tavington sisters were loudly praising Miss James' skill with pencils and crayons, and were praising the progress of her drawing. Lucy saw Jane watching, and gave her a wink.

"She is so sarcastic," Letty confided. "She is not happy with _anything._ She complained of her room, even though it is charming—she says the color makes her feel bilious. She feels neglected by the servants, and is always finding fault with them. Lord Fanshawe expects me to chaperone her, but really, she is very troublesome!"

"Perhaps she would feel appeased if you took her to the modiste, and bought her new clothes."

"I intend to do that tomorrow. She complained of her clothes, and then acted ill-used when I told her we would go out to buy more. Somehow the day is inconvenient, though I hardly know how that could be, since she has no engagements that I know of."

"Still, perhaps some pretty new gowns may appease her."

"I certainly hope so! Now, Jane, will you send for Little Will? I've missed him, and I long to give him a cuddle. And Moll, too! Is she well?"

"Moll is doing splendidly. She is going to be married at the end of the month to Tom Young, who is now butler at Wargrave. Sir John will give them a pretty cottage. Moll is very kindly helping here in the nursery while the other nursemaid is being inoculated. I shall miss her, but she is so happy. She is expecting a child in August," she whispered softly, directly into Letty's ear.

"Oh, she deserves to be happy. Please ring for them now. And—for the other children, too. What a burden for you! Dear sister, Lord Fanshawe does not want me to offer to take them in, but he has given permission for me to buy them some very good presents. I want to take advantage of his good will. What would be best?"

Jane got up and rang for a footman. As soon as the servant appeared, she told him to have Mrs. Royston and the maids bring down the children. Sitting down by Letty again, she said, "They need everything, poor boys. Clothing, certainly. Plain baby linen would be welcome, and caps too. Actually—" Jane thought about it. The boys certainly did not need elaborate gifts, but if Lord Fanshawe wished to be generous—"Well, perhaps some silver. Their christening cups disappeared when Selina ran away, along with most of their clothing. Yes," she said more positively. "William Francis has so many nice things. A cup, porringer and spoon for Ash and Thomas would be charming."

"With their initials, of course. 'ACR' for Ashbury Charles Rutledge, and—what is Thomas' middle name?"

Jane opened her mouth, and paused. "Pinckney" was on the tip of her tongue, but she did not want to say it. She paused a little longer, in thought. The first family name that came to her was—

"Manigault," she told Letty. "Manigault, after Papa's mother's family. So--.'TMR,' for Thomas Manigault Rutledge." She felt herself blushing. She had no idea why she had suddenly thought of Ralph. Manigault was a perfectly good name—her paternal grandmother's name. There was no reason to burden little Thomas with the name of his faithless mother and her rebel uncles. Manigault it would be, then.

She smiled, her guilt assuaged, and told Letty, "The Colonel is being so good to them. He is a very affectionate father and brother."

"I'm so glad! You're not—expecting yourself, are you?"

Jane laughed. "I hope not! I would like to wean William Francis before I bear any more children! But someday," she admitted, "I would like to have a daughter."

"Oh, so would I! I hope this child is a girl. His lordship does too. He is not so fond of little boys, and there are so many in his family."

"You told me how horrid the little ones were!"

"I swear I didn't exaggerate! They were horrible!"

"Letty," Jane asked earnestly. "Is Lord Fanshawe kind to you? Are you happy?"

There was a pause, and Letty tried to answer honestly. "He is very good to me, and very generous. He never hurts me and he never speaks rudely to me. He expects to always have his own way, though, and that means—"

She stopped, her eyes on the doorway, smiling happily at the sight of Moll, who entered, carrying Little Will in her arms. A maid carried another baby, and the footman led a tiny boy with each hand, helping them down the stairs. Caroline and Penelope stopped their attentions to Miss James, glad to see the children. Lucy put her arms out to Ned. Miss James pursed her lips, annoyed that she had lost her audience. At Moll's urging, Ash made a kind of funny little bow to the ladies, and then trotted over to Jane, slowing down at the sight of a strange lady in black sitting by his sister.

"Come here, Ash darling. This is your other sister, Lady Fanshawe. Come and give her a kiss."

Ashbury thought the lady very pretty, but also rather frightening, as she seemed to be covered in black feathers and jewels. She smelled very nice, though, and when she bent low and offered him her cheek, he placed a loud kiss on it without too much shuffling and fidgeting. She kissed him back, saying, "I haven't seen you in ages, Ash. The last time I saw you, you were hardly more than a baby!"

"I'm a big boy now," he declared.

"I see that you are. A good boy, too. How do you like it here?"

This was too complicated a question. Ash shrugged and looked at his feet. "I like it. I was on a boat for a long time!"

"I know you were! I came here by boat too. It made my tummy sick. Did you get sick?"

"Umm-hmm! I was so sick I was 'bout to _die_!"

He thought the lady in pink was pretty, and decided he would like to make friends. He toddled over, put his hands on her gown, and tried to climb into her lap, not understanding that this young lady was unused to small children.

"Get away!" the girl cried, pushing Ash away. "You'll soil my gown!"

The little boy fell on his bottom, and his eyes filled with tears. Scrambling up, he turned and ran for Jane, small arms reaching out for comfort. Jane was already out of her chair and caught Ash up in a moment. She did not withdraw, however, but stood over Miss James, glaring.

"How dare you! You will be so good as not to strike my brother!"

Utterly taken aback by Jane's anger, the girl shrank into her chair. She looked to Letty for support.

"Lady Fanshawe, that child would have dirtied my gown!"

Her plea was useless. Letty was hardly going to take her part against her own sister. Very mildly, she reproved the girl. "Your gown could be cleaned or replaced. You must be gentle with little children." Sweetly, she called, "Ash, come here, and I'll wipe your little hands. You mustn't dirty ladies' pretty dresses!"

Jane brought him over and the two of them used their handkerchiefs on his perfectly clean fingers.

"There now," Letty soothed. "Go over to Harmonia, and she will give you a nice kiss."

Jane was doubtful, but did not want to undermine Letty with her unpleasant young charge. She took Ash by the hand, and led him over to Miss James, and fixed her with a stern regard. If that had not been enough to frighten the young girl, there was the imposing Moll, who stood behind Jane, glaring and flexing her fingers.

Finally, the girl wrinkled her nose, but leaned over and dutifully placed a kiss on Ash's forehead.

He sniffled, and whispered, "Sowwy, ma'am."

"Very nice, Ash." Jane praised him. "Here --sit by me. Mrs. Royston, please bring William Francis over to see Lady Fanshawe."

"Oh, Moll," Letty said, tears in her eyes. "I am so happy for you! I hope you and your Tom will have a wonderful life together.!"

"Thankee ma'am," Moll beamed. "That's right kind of you."

"Oh! And here is darling little Will!"

She took the baby in her arms and kissed him tenderly. He, for his part, was fascinated by her drooping black plumes, and made a little grab for them. The women laughed. Letty's eye was caught by Baby Thomas, and she admired him, too.

"Such a handsome child. But, oh! What a lot of work for you, Jane! You must take special care of yourself!"

"Don't worry about me," Jane said, putting out her arms for Thomas. "See what a nursery-full of fine little men I have!"

She dropped a quick kiss on Ashbury's bright head. The two babies grinned at each other. Lucy and Ned joined them, and formed a comfortable group: talking together about babies, and having babies, and planning for babies. The two little boys rolled Red Horse back and forth between them, giggling.

Meanwhile, Caroline and Penelope lured Miss James to the harpsichord and the girl began playing the pieces she had learned at school. It would take some time: though she only knew five by heart, each piece had a number of anecdotes attached to it, which the girl told him detail to the kind-hearted older ladies. She thought herself wonderfully witty and entertaining, not realizing how many times the Tavington sisters had heard those pieces, and heard stories just like Miss James.' Nonetheless, she responded instinctively to their intelligent comments, behaving better than she had in some time, and thinking that these women were very nice—"for old maids."

A few minutes later, Tavington returned, and took the stairs two at a time, happy to be home. He heard the music and talk floating from the drawing room, and strode directly to his wife, where she sat with her sister and sister-in-law.

"Ah, Jane!" He kissed her hand."Lucy, my dear!" He admired their other guest. "Lady Fanshawe! You look magnificent!"

There was as much truth as flattery in his remark. He had always thought Letty very pretty, but now she was positively glamorous. The mourning became her: giving her dignity and presence, making her skin appear more fashionably pale. His eyes searched her, looking beyond the expensive jewelry and the modish garments. Her whole air had changed. She was more confident—and she certainly did not show signs of ill-use, which he had looked for first of all. _Ridiculous to consider it, of course. Fanshawe would never be so coarse as to strike her._

He bowed and kissed her hand, very respectfully, and then laughed as Will put out his arms to his father. Tavington took the boy from Letty with the ease of long practice.

"May I congratulate you, sister, on your own situation? I hope you are very well, and continue so!"

"You are very kind, Colonel," Letty replied, with a shy smile.

"But here," Jane interposed, "William, you are remiss. You did not see that we have another visitor. Miss James, let me present to you my husband, Colonel Tavington."

Miss James was already staring, her face red as fire. When the Colonel gave her a bow, she could hardly remember to acknowledge it. Instead she sat down, blushing the more, and looked at him in little quick glances. Lucy, Caroline and Penelope caught each other's eye and tried not to laugh. It was not the first time that a young lady had been besotted at the first sight of their handsome brother.

Letty and Jane noticed it too, and were not so amused. Letty was uncomfortable, imagining all sorts of unpleasantness, and Jane was annoyed at another woman—however young—so openly ogling her private property. Her lips thinned, and she tried to dismiss her annoyance by ordering tea.

Tavington was full of news about his upcoming mission to Windsor, and all the ladies were appropriately impressed.

"Perhaps you should plan to attend the first of the Queen's Thursday Drawing Rooms. I hope you can arrange your Court Dress in time!"

"Court Dress!" cried Miss James, a little too loudly.

Letty paused, and then said softly, "We must first ask Lord Fanshawe his opinion, my dear Harmonia."

Jane started, surprised at how well Letty had adopted the manner of speech of the British aristocracy. It was true, she had been surrounded by such people for months, and there was still just the least bit of Carolina honey left in her accent, but her expressions, her tone, even the pronunciation of such words as _lord, first, darling, yourself—_had changed. Letty was adapting: she was fitting in. She saw William's considering look, and knew he was thinking the same thing.

Letty, for her part, was studying her sister and her husband. She had thought Jane looked very well the day before, but had reserved judgement until she could see the two of them together. What she saw made her feel very relieved. They were talking together and were at ease together. The Colonel was paying Jane proper attention and was being very nice to the children.

Jane looked better, too—not pale and plain, as she was too apt to look. Well, Jane would always be pale, but with the careful cosmetics, it was a fashionable pallor. And then, she had put on a little weight, which very much improved her figure. Most of all, she looked happy, which Mama had always said was a great beautifier. Even if they must wear mourning to be presented at Court, Jane would make a fine appearance.

It was a little annoying, though, that Harmonia seemed to think that she would be presented, too. She did not know what Lord Fanshawe intended for the girl. If she was simply a companion, then a presentation was not warranted. On the other hand, if he meant to notice her and perhaps settle some money on her, it could be looked upon as the first step of the girl's being Out.

Lady Carteret had explained it all, and Letty felt she understood it. It all still hinged, however, on what Lord Fanshawe meant to do. And he might decide that Harmonia was too young to be presented anyway, and tell her it would take place next year. Letty felt she would prefer that. She wanted to be presented with her sister, with no troublesome, whining young charge to spoil the day.

With more decision than usual, she said, "Yes. I shall speak to Lord Fanshawe tonight. Tomorrow, dear sister, you and I shall go out and order our dresses. Miss Tavington, Miss Penelope—will you come with us? I know you have been at Court often—Lord Fanshawe has told me that Lady Cecily was a Lady of the Bedchamber to the Dowager Princess of Wales--but wouldn't you like to go again?"

"I don't know—" Penelope replied, surprised.

Caroline added, "—Our mother--"

"It would only be for a few hours. Or at least _one_ of you could go? How handsome you would look."

"I promise to think about it, my dear," Caroline sighed, "I do not wish to disappoint you, but I think you will find it all a little—dull."

Penelope softened this, with, "But it is an experience not to be missed. Of course you must both be presented, but the conversation is so stilted, so insipid, even! You cannot speak unless spoken to, and sometimes no one speaks at all. It is very—"

"But to see the Queen!" Miss James nearly shouted. "To be so close to greatness! I would think it disloyal to call it dull!"

Embarrassed, Letty whispered a reproach, "That's enough, Harmonia!"

Jane stared at the blonde girl, very offended. She remembered that she had always disliked pretty blonde girls in South Carolina.

Tavington said calmly, after a frozen moment, "No one here is the least disloyal, Miss James. It is not disloyal to remark that it is a ceremonious occasion, and therefore, not one given to easy conversation or casual greetings. I daresay it is rather dull for Her Majesty, too, but she does not shirk their duty in becoming acquainted with her subjects."

Jane nearly rolled her eyes herself. She had never heard William sound so like a schoolmaster. She would twit him about it later, she decided. Right now, it had sufficed. Miss James was gaping at him in open adoration, and the Tavington sisters were trying to repress their laughter.

Jane remembered with a pang that Lucy probably could no longer be presented at court. Her husband's status as a gentleman was rather more questionable, and she had somewhat exiled herself from the social circles of her birth. Well, even if she was not considered grand enough to be received by the Queen, Jane thought, she was more than acceptable at Mortimer Square.

Jane spoke of the ball on Saturday the twenty-sixth, learned that Lucy's dress was ordered, and found that Letty had seen the invitation. Lord Fanshawe had approved it, and all was in train for a glorious occasion. They spoke softly, for Letty was uncertain if his lordship would permit Harmonia to attend even this function.

"I shall let you know as soon as possible."

"No matter," Jane whispered back. "With the mob we are expecting, one more guest will be no trouble!"

Blessedly, the tea came, and Jane could hide behind the refreshments. Miss James took her share, commenting that _at school_ they were served French pastries on Thursdays. Jane ignored the remark, believing it to be a ridiculous lie, and smiled at Letty who was embarrassed at her charge's ill-bred behavior. Tavington looked amused, but had no more time for her, for Ashbury wanted his attention and part of his cake.

-----

Letty appeared the next day in her own elegant barouche, ready to go to the modiste with Jane. Jane had been watching for her, and was quite impressed by her sister's personal equipage.

"Alone!" she told Moll with excited pleasure. "We won't have to put up with that wretched girl!"

She danced from the nursery, and ran down the steps. She settled down beside her sister, with a smile and an exchange of kisses. Letty looked serious, and Jane asked her what was the matter.

"Such doings at Fanshawe House!" Letty told her, in a low voice. "Lord Fanshawe declared that he does _not_ want Harmonia presented this month. She will be seventeen in March, and he said that is early enough. And then! Harmonia got red in the face and let out such a scream! The whole house must have heard it! She dared to oppose Lord Fanshawe, and said that she _would_ be presented! Lord Fanshawe was quite surprised. He had always thought her a nice girl."

Jane was faintly horrified. Screaming at someone like Lord Fanshawe did not seem particularly wise. Most especially, a natural daughter, completely dependent upon him, should know how to hold her tongue. No doubt Lord Fanshawe was surprised.

"Of course he has never lived with her before. Probably she could behave for the short visits he had made in the past."

Letty looked at her wide-eyed. "It was very, very foolish of her. His lordship does not allow people to disagree with him. Harmonia has been locked in her room since last night, and we have all been forbidden to bring her anything to eat, so she has had nothing since tea with you yesterday. I believe she has some water, if she has not spilled it in her fit of rage. I could hear her smashing things. His lordship said she could stay there until she was quiet. I very much doubt he will permit her to attend your ball. He practically ordered me out of the house to see to my Court dress. I thought he would come along, but he is too angry. I wish Harmonia liked me. I would advise her to submit to her guardian, and not to irritate him. He might send her back to school!"

"Perhaps that's where she needs to be," Jane pointed out. "Maybe she is just not mature enough for the role he assigned her. Is she very rude to you?"

Though years of slavery had damaged Letty's self-esteem and confidence, she was far from stupid. There was no reason to lie to Jane. "She's very rude to everyone. She was restraining herself when in company with Lord Fanshawe, but she is so difficult to live with! I don't know how the other schoolgirls could bear it." She confided, "It's not at all like the school in _The Governess_. Those girls learned to live together so nicely. And also—" she looked sad. "—Harmonia knows that I am not the daughter of a nobleman. She doesn't know all about me, but she feels superior to me, because my father was a private gentleman, and hers—for she seems sure than Lord Fanshawe is her father—is a viscount."

"What nonsense!" Jane said, wanting to slap Miss James' sneering little face. "You are Lady Fanshawe, and she is a poor relation. She's a fool not to make a friend and ally of you."

"I do feel sorry for her," Letty told her. "She must be dreadfully hungry by now. I feel like a wicked stepmother in a story. It's horrible."

"You are not wicked! It's all her own fault. I confess I don't know any stories about wicked _stepchildren_, but she seems to be turning into one. She knows what she must do. Her own silly pride has got her into this fix, and she must swallow it before she can swallow any dinner. Put her out of your mind. We have wonderful Court dresses to choose. I saw a picture in _The Lady_—"

"Oh! I saw that too! Let us dress quite a bit the same. We will use the same fabric, only cut a little differently at the shoulder, and your plumes will be arranged in the back. Our hair must be powdered, of course, and we shall wear all our pearls."

"I noticed your enormous pearl, Letty. Or was that a cannonball?"

Letty laughed, her face clearing. "My Christmas present! It is called "The Virgin's Tear," and it belonged to some queen a long time ago. It is very heavy, but his lordship likes to see it on me. Even," she whispered, "when I wear nothing else!"

Jane felt her eyebrows nearly skim her hairline. "Tell me everything!"

-----

A few days later, Tavington rode out of London at the head of his regiment. It would not take long to arrive at Windsor. He thought back over rides of fifty, seventy—a hundred miles—that he had undertaken in America, on bad roads, or no roads, in all weather. This was a pleasant outing. The men seemed in good spirits, and St. Leger was singing to himself.

After a few miles of annoying humming, Tavington asked, "What _is_ that tune?"

St. Leger looked at him in confusion. "Dreadfully sorry, sir. I really don't know. Something I heard at the theatre, I suppose. I didn't know I was humming. Just happy, I suppose."

_Happy about the ball, probably. _The ball was this Saturday, and additional invitations had been sent: to Lord and Lady Carteret, to Tarleton, and to a family that Tavington barely knew, but who had a daughter who had caught St. Leger's eye. There would be quite a crowd, and possibly there would be some uninvited guests in the houses, for keeping such people out was often beyond anyone's power.

He felt a little concern knowing that Uncle Colchester had sent word that he was coming, along with Sattersby and Kitty. He hoped there would be no unpleasantness. Jane, at least, need not be concerned for his own behavior.

Tavington was more concerned about his current duties: he was hoping to catch some influential person's ear in the course of this mission. Their Majesties would of course be secluded in their own great carriage, but there would plenty of Court appointees: Gentlemen and Ladies of the Bedchamber, equerries, secretaries. He knew he must exert himself to be pleasant to everyone. One never knew when an acquaintance might have the power to advance one's career.

His uncle, Lord Colchester, knew Lord North, and spoke well of him, though the two men had little in common and had never been close. St. Leger's father, Lord Melmerby, had some ties to the Paymaster General—that most lucrative of military posts. Tavington sneered, thinking of how Charles James Fox's father, Lord Holland, had built his huge fortune on his notorious corruption during his stint as Paymaster. It was rough justice that the man's two sons were dissipating his ill-gotten gains in their endless gaming and whoring.

Fox, it seemed, had taken up with yet another of the Prince of Wales' cast-off mistresses. _Good God, the Prince is not yet twenty-one, and he already has been at the game long enough to have had a string of women—and if gossip is well-founded—at least one royal bastard in the making. Not a very promising beginning for a King of England, though perhaps we've been spoiled by the King's behavior all these years. _

Tavington could remember the King's grandfather and predecessor, the late George II, quite well. He and John had even been presented to him as small boys, at an afternoon fete one summer. He recalled a shrunken old man in a huge wig with a thick German accent. The King had hardly seen them, so busy was he ogling Lady Cecily, then still a most beautiful woman.

Tavington grinned, reminded of what a friend of his mother's had told her about Queen Caroline's deathbed. She had urged her husband to marry again, and the King, with tears in his eyes, had said no, he could not bear to replace her. Instead, he said, "I will take mistresses." Tavington had not understood it at the time, but now, it never failed to make him laugh. He wondered if Jane had heard the story. If not, he would tell her. It would make a change from her own tales of Letty and Fanshawe House and that infernal Miss James.

Jane had been wild to tell him how the girl had been saucy to the old peer and had found herself locked up for a full day before apologizing. Jane thought she should be plumped back into school, but Fanshawe would not have it. His lordship had told the silly girl that her behavior must be impeccable hereafter, or she would find herself sent to the Continent, as a governess to a French family of his acquaintance. That had shut her up, very thoroughly.

Tavington was relieved that his wife's tendency to adopt strays did not extend to the tiresome Harmonia James. No one knew if the girl would be permitted to attend the ball or not. Apparently, Lord Fanshawe had not allowed a gown to be ordered for her for this occasion. This indicated to Tavington that she would not attend, for he could not imagine a man so devoted to fashion allowing his ward to appear at her first London ball in anything but something new and remarkable.

More happily, he recalled the reception of the present he had made his wife: an exquisite Russian-made box of green malachite with gold mountings. It locked, and was now the repository of Jane's little fund of cash. Jane had never seen malachite before, and was enchanted with it, going on about the beauty of that shade of green, wanting to find draperies of just that color for her room. She had thanked him at delightful length, not just, as she said, before the box was expensive, but because he had shown that he had taken the trouble to understand the sort of thing she would like.

The 3rd Dragoons arrived at Windsor, and were met very efficiently. Tavington was spirited away though the vast halls of Windsor to a private reception room. He wondered if he would be meeting with some functionary, when he recognized the tired, heavy-jawed man at the head of the table, and bowed deeply.

"Your Majesty."

"Come, sir. I wish to hear about your time in America."

Tavington, to his own amazement, found himself blushing a little with surprise and pleasure. He recognized two of the other men in the room: Lord North, the Prime Minister, and Lord Amherst, the Commander of the Forces. He tried to keep his own face pleasant and impassive. Lord North he considered something of a bungler, and he was prejudiced against Lord Amherst by Bordon's vocal hatred of the man.

Amherst had had a distinguished career in North America, but had refused a field command there in the present war, as he had too many friends on either side. That was not the reason for Bordon's loathing. It was fairly well known that Amherst had been party to a scheme to destroy the native tribes with smallpox, by means of infected blankets. It was a terribly cruel and underhanded thing to do, Tavington had agreed. And as he had told Bordon, "Impolitic too, since many of our colonists have no immunity, were a smallpox epidemic to sweep the frontier."

However, these were the men he had to deal with. Of all of them, he thought he rather preferred the King. However much some of his aristocratic relations—principally his mother—despised King George and Queen Charlotte for their simple tastes and domestic habits, Tavington thought there was some substance there, some feeling of responsibility, and at least on the King's part, some real love for his kingdom and his inhabitants. It was hard to realize that he was only about ten years Tavington's senior. He looked far older.

Interrogated by the King, Tavington told of his days as a Green Dragoon, and of the men he commanded. After some time, The King asked the predictable question.

"Why did you leave them?"

"They rather left _me,_ Your Majesty. I had been gravely wounded at the Cowpens. I should have died, had not Mrs. Tavington and her sister, Lady Fanshawe, not risked all to journey into the dangerous backcountry to nurse me. Meanwhile, the Dragoons were subsumed into Lord Cornwallis' forces and headed north. By the time I was well enough to ride, we were separated by hundreds of miles and roving rebel militia. Instead, I made myself useful to Lord Rawdon in his defense of Camden at Hobkirk's Hill and in his retreat to Charlestown. When I heard of my promotion, I decided that I could serve better here as an advocate for my brave and loyal men better than I could in a garrison town, or in New York. I am writing a memoir about them, hoping to obtain recognition and succor for them."

"Yes—" the King shrank into himself, his head down. "Their sufferings have been great indeed. I think of them—my loyal people. Something must be done. Something shall be done. What of their families?"

Tavington told him a few tales—using Moll as an example. An honest farmer and his wife—their home burned—turned out into the wilderness--their child dying—their sturdy service in the Dragoons—his brave death—the farmer's wife, reduced to a regimental laundress—now a servant. The King asked a secretary to make a note of her name.

"Your wife is a Colonial lady, I have been told."

"Yes, Your Majesty. I shall be ever grateful to my service in America for making her acquaintance possible. Her father, Ashbury Rutledge was a great rice planter in South Carolina. He died knowing that his property had been seized by the rebels. My wife's two young brothers are entirely disinherited, and were brought to England nearly penniless. Of course, my wife and I shall care for them and they shall want for nothing—"

"Disinherited. Driven from their native land. Poor, poor boys. Make a note of them, Wyndham."

The King whispered to his companions for some time. Lord Amherst glanced to Tavington once or twice, and nodded. Lord North raised his brows and whispered back, not so softly but that Tavington could hear them speaking of John. Finally, the King sat back, and granted Tavington a faint smile.

"We are most interested in your noble concern for your comrades in arms, Colonel. Rest assured that steps will be taken for their relief."

Lord Amherst gave Tavington a look that told him that the audience was over. Bowing again, Tavington luckily remembered to back away politely as he exited the room. Knowing that eyes were upon him the entire time, he refrained from sighing or shrugging, and simply strode back down the hall, accompanied by the equerry who had shown him in.

Before he took his leave, that gentleman, Sir Edward Claypoole, touched his arm and said, rather confidentially, "I believe His Majesty was pleased with you, Colonel. Perhaps it would be a proper attention if Mrs. Tavington were to present herself at Court at the Queen's first Thursday Drawing Room."

"That is indeed our intention," Tavington replied, rather surprised.

"Excellent. The King never forgets his true friends. He occasionally needs to be reminded, however, who they are. You cannot do better than to remind the Royal Family of your existence. Why don't you join me and some of my friends for a bit of supper tonight? Your cousin, young Colonel St. Leger, is welcome, too, of course."

Having no other plans, Tavington agreed, and he and St. Leger had a very good supper indeed, which was interrupted by the appearance of a young man in the uniform of the 10th dragoons. His handsome face was flushed with wine, and his figure was tending to fat. He had a charming smile, however. If Tavington had not guessed his identity, he might have been offended by the familiarity of the young man's behavior.

"So _you're_ Tavington! I've heard you were a regular Tartar in America! Fire and sword and 'damn the rebels!' Jolly good to see you in the flesh!"

And so it was that Tavington first met the Prince of Wales, at a late night of wine and cards in the equerries' apartments at Windsor. Feeling that he was on duty—after a fashion—Tavington drank sparingly, and played his cards very carefully. He won some money—over fifty pounds, and answered the young prince's questions about life at war.

The Prince of Wales might have been dressed as a soldier, but Tavington doubted he had ever served a day's duty as a working officer. He was, nonetheless, his future sovereign. The prince was no longer a boy, but also was not quite a man, in Tavington's opinion. Had he not been a prince, and had really been a young officer under his command, Tavington would have broken him of his vanity and chatter and posing, or young George would have had a sorry time of it. _A few days under fire might do wonders for him. _

At length, Tavington pleaded the late hour and his duties. He included St. Leger in his excuses, as his cousin was looking decidedly green. He gave St. Leger his arm and bowed his farewells to the Prince and his sycophants.

"So delighted to have met you, Tavington," the Prince of Wales called after him airily. "We must see more of one another in London!"

-----

Jane and Letty watched the return of the King to London and the subsequent review in St. James Park from the comfort of Letty's barouche. Letty's friend, Lady Carteret, joined their party, as well as the inevitable Harmonia. It was cold but clear, and the ladies were thoroughly wrapped in velvet and furs as they watched the passing parade. When Tavington and his men rode by, Jane had to force herself not to jump to her feet and call out, as the young woman of the town were, all around them. Miss James, who had become very silent over the past week, brightened considerably at Tavington's appearance, to Jane's great disgust.

"Who is that young man with the Colonel?" Letty wondered. "I know Colonel St. Leger, but not him."

"My dear!" Lady Carteret whispered loudly behind her fan, "That is His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales! He must be taken with the Colonel, to seek—and to have been granted permission—to ride with him. He is a very good-looking young man."

"I suppose," Jane shrugged. "He isn't a patch on the Colonel!"

Both ladies laughed at her, but kindly. Miss James did not laugh, thinking Mrs. Tavington absolutely correct. Never had she seen a man who equaled Colonel Tavington in face or figure. He had such an air about him, too.

"The Colonel is very handsome," Letty agreed.

"And he makes such a splendid appearance in uniform," said Lady Carteret. "Their helmets give them the air of ancient heroes! Yes, I agree. Your husband is quite dashing. Colonel St. Leger is very attractive, too. Is he married?"

"Not even engaged, as far as I know," Jane answered. "Probably looking for just the right young lady—with just the right fortune."

"Maybe my sister-in-law's niece would do for him—"

They chatted on, and applauded the King's carriage very dutifully.

"We must get on to Madame Margot's." Letty reminded them. "I do hope the dresses are complete."

"You'll find the Drawing Room a very long affair," Lady Carteret warned them. "There's no way I could endure it, in my condition. Don't drink too much beforehand, or you may find yourselves very uncomfortable!"

"Will you come with us to the modiste's, Lady Carteret, or shall we take you home?" asked Jane. "Do come! We shall go to my house afterwards, and have a very substantial tea!"

-----

The Drawing Room was ghastly. Jane had not quite pictured how deadly dull it would be. She and Letty spent such a time dressing for it. So had William and Lord Fanshawe. They looked magnificent, and so did everyone else, but it was like being a statue. Jane longed to shout and fidget. The weight of her hair alone, however, made it more trouble than it would be worth.

Court dress was not the current style. It was very conservative, with huge old-fashioned panniers, the fullest possible petticoats, and enormously high-piled hair. It had taken Pullen all morning to do her hair alone, in between Jane's other duties. Some horsehair pads were laid on Jane's head, and her hair teased and ratted and pomaded around them into a rather grotesque shape. It was powdered then, and Jane sneezed and sneezed. Plumes were _de rigeur, _and caused the whole mess to grow even higher. Pearls were arranged on her head, and at last she was helped into the the steel pannier cage and the enormous underpetticoats. Her black silk petticoat was then covered with a black gown, edged with black lace.

After she was bejeweled with all her pearls, Jane could hardly support the weight. Now she understood why there was so much dignity at Court. It was nearly impossible to move. William looked gorgeous in his dress uniform, like a tropical bird in contrast with her black gown. Only his black armband revealed that he, too, was in mourning. They were to travel the short distance to St. James Palace in the Lord Fanshawe's carriage, which arrived promptly.

Fanshawe was eager to present his prize before the rest of the _ton. _He looked very well, himself, in his Court dress. His waistcoat and breeches were black watered silk, gleaming dully beneath the funereal splendor of the black velvet coat. His linen was snow-white and his lace superb. His face was painted so thickly that it was impossible to guess his age. His blue eyes, however, were wells of experience—and some of it very shady indeed.

Jane had practiced her movements in that heavy gown, but her heart beat erratically, imagining all the stupid, clumsy, laughable predicaments that might be hers. By the time they waited their turn, and then stepped forward to be announced, Jane wished violently that she had stayed home. Letty looked at her in sympathy, wishing she could go home herself.

She had had a dream the night before, and the memory of it made her stomach turn. In the dream, she had been dressed in white, like a bride. When the ugly man in rough clothes had stepped out from the crowd, she had known what he was going to shout.

_"Bastard! High–yaller whore! You oughter be on the auction block."_

Then he had changed into her father, sneering at her. All of Charlestown society was there—all of Miss Jane's kin. They were whispering and muttering and then shouting, telling the other slaves to throw her out. Hands groped at her, blackening her white gown with filth--

Letty shivered again, and a trickle of sweat snaked down her back. She leaned on Lord Fanshawe's arm.

"Are you quite well, Madam?" he asked, concerned.

"Yes. I was warned that it would be very fatiguing."

"Just a little longer, and then you shall see the Queen!"

A voice boomed, "The Viscount and Viscountess Fanshawe! Colonel and Mrs. Tavington!"

The Queen was seated at the end of the room, a dumpy figure in satin and jewels. A gentleman stood behind her, whispering identifying information in her ear about those being presented. The Queen's hair was piled high, and Jane felt a twinge of sympathy, knowing how long it must have taken to dress it so. The sympathy was followed by irritation_. She's the Queen. She could change the fashion. It's so very horrid. Why doesn't she do something about it? _

With the Queen was her eldest daughter, Charlotte, the Princess Royal, and the Prince of Wales. The Princess, Jane thought, was rather nice-looking, in a pink silk dress trimmed with amazing lace. Her sleeves were puffed out between encircling strands of pearls. The Prince of Wales was in an elegant uniform, and looked tremendously bored, but he brightened at the sight of Tavington. Then his eye moved to Letty, and he positively glowed.

The Queen greeted them, her English heavily accented. They bowed and curtseyed.

"We are very happy to see you here, Lady Fanshawe. You are from South Carolina, are you not?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," said Letty, her lips nearly frozen with fear. Lord Fanshawe had told her to say "Yes, Your Majesty" to anything she heard. It was very convenient.

"Lord Fanshawe, may you find great happiness in your marriage. Lady Fanshawe is charming."

"I thank Your Majesty."

"Mrs. Tavington, you and Lady Fanshawe are sisters, we believe."

"Indeed we are, Your Majesty."

"No doubt you find England very different than the Carolinas."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Colonel Tavington, one hears so much of your loyal service. We are pleased to see you before us."

"The honor is mine, Your Majesty."

That was all. They bowed again, and backed away. Jane had a moment of horror, wondering if her train was tangled. Very carefully, she kicked it back, and proceeded smoothly. They found places near a window, and each drew breath, feeling that the worst was over. Fanshawe recovered first, for he had come to Court many times, and it was still as silly as ever.

"Well, they say that a cat can look at a king. It is only proper, therefore, that you charming ladies should make free to look at a queen! How do you like it?"

Jane said quietly, "It must be very dull for her."

Fanshawe snorted. "The Queen is the distillation of dullness. Thus it is her meat and drink! And you, my dear Madam," he said, turning to Letty. "Are you recovered from your brush with greatness?"

Letty thought about it. Now that it was over, it seemed very simple, and rather ridiculous. "Yes, I'm all right, but I wouldn't be a queen for anything!"

Tavington chuckled, and looked about to see if anyone were listening. "Either of you could play the part better than she!"

The endless stream of people waiting to be presented moved with all the speed of a glacier. Gossip hung thick on the air. They were feeling very thoroughly bored, and wishing they could go home. Some acquaintances found them and chatted interminably. Jane was so tired by the weight of her gown that she considered sitting down on the hard, shining floor. Letty was tired of the insipid talk, and began discussing Bellini and her Italian lessons, and how soon they would start.

It was agreed that Monday would be the day. Bellini would come, and give Letty a singing lesson, and then teach them both the rudiments of his native tongue. Very cautiously, Jane suggested that perhaps the lesson should be at Mortimer Square.

"My lord, with all your visitors, it may be impossible for my sister to attend to her lessons as she needs to. We would meet in our music room, shut the doors, and see no one else for the afternoon. That way you could visit or receive as you like."

Fanshawe considered this. It was a sensible plan, but he disliked the idea of Lady Fanshawe spending two full days a week at her sister's. On Thursday, Mrs. Tavington would be at home, and Lady Fanshawe could spend the afternoon there. It was enough. He preferred that anything else be under his own auspices.

"It is most generous of you to offer, Mrs. Tavington, but I shall make clear that Lady Fanshawe is not at home to visitors on Monday. She will have the Painted Parlor for her lessons, and I would be honored if you would join her there. I shall see that the two of you and Bellini are quite undisturbed, except when I come to enjoy the fruits of your labors."

Tavington were giving her a look that told her to agree. Jane knew she must. Lord Fanshawe was no great admirer of hers, and she must make concessions, if she wished to spend as much time with Letty as she liked. They would have three afternoons together, and one of them in comparative privacy. They were invited to dine with Lord Fanshawe weekly, as a regular engagement. It was really quite nice of him.

"Very well. It sounds like a delightful plan. I have heard so much about the Painted Parlor. I cannot wait to see it for myself!"

Jane hoped that it, unlike the Queen, would not prove utterly disappointing. She felt Tavington stiffen beside her and looked up. He was returning the stare of a gentleman in blue. Whoever the man was, he was not a friend, for he was staring hard at Tavington—staring as if he wished his gaze could strike him dead.

"Who is that gentleman?" Jane whispered.

"No one worth attending to," Tavington replied, rather curtly. "Only Lord Torrenham, who was one of the parasites leeching off my mother."

Fanshawe glanced idly at the younger nobleman. "Oh, come! He's an amusing dog, and a good card player. One can't blame the fellow. It is his only livelihood."

"Then let him find a profession! He's a Whig, too," Tavington remarked. "What is he doing here? I thought his sort disdained the King and Queen."

Fanshawe shrugged elegantly. "He is with his mother and the youngest sister, who is to come out this Season. One must observe the forms, whatever one's politics. Miss Sophia must be presented, and they must hope for the best."

"Her face is rather pretty," Letty remarked, wanting to say something nice.

"You are generous, as always, my lady. Her face is pleasant enough, indeed, but the poor girl has but five thousand pounds. The late father and his endless building projects have nearly ruined the family. I daresay they will find a rich brewer for the girl."

"Like the sister of Lord Cornwallis," Tavington agreed. "The man is still a parasite."

Torrenham appeared to have heard the words "parasite." His head swiveled back to them, and he glared at Tavington, who smiled sweetly at him.

"He looks like he'd like to pick a fight," Jane observed. She stared at Lord Torrenham herself, disliking him because he so obviously disliked William. Torrenham noticed her looking at him, and sneered. Jane narrowed her eyes at him, and lifted her chin in defiance, disliking him more than ever. Tavington noticed the exchange, and laughed.

"Perhaps, my dear; but if there is to be a fight, be merciful to him, and leave him to me!"

Torrenham had dropped his mother's arm, and was coming their way. Jane kept her head up, but felt very uneasy. The man, thin and long-nosed, tried to push his face into Tavington's. He was not quite tall enough, but Tavington caught the stale reek of too much wine.

"Were you speaking of me, sir?"

"I am unsure what you heard, my lord. However, it is well known that eavesdroppers never hear good of themselves. You should not intrude on private conversations."

"Private indeed! At Court!"

Tavington snarled, "I was not speaking to _you!_ Had you not made a point of attracting my attention with your open scorn, I should had no reason to say anything, for I do not consider you worth the trouble of thinking of."

"How dare you! Do not presume to hold yourself above me! It's a disgrace that a red-handed murderer like you is allowed to walk free, much less strut about St. James Palace—"

"--Ah, yes, the ruined layabout presumes to speak of wars he had not the stomach to serve in himself--"

"--and everyone knows your mother has gone off her head with the pox--"

"Richard! Please!" Lady Torrenham and Miss Sophia had followed Torrenham and were trying to pull him away, looking very ashamed.

Tavington felt himself flush, a dreadful shame and nausea pooling inside him like cold lead. _Does the whole town know?_

The girl pleaded, "Don't spoil my presentation. You promised, Richard!"

Unruffled, Lord Fanshawe bowed to the ladies. "Lady Torrenham, Miss Copely."

Tavington followed suit, still furious, but uncomfortable with the situation. He had no desire to spoil Jane's presentation either. If only he had met Torrenham in a lonely place, unobserved--

But he had not. The whole Court was watching him, and they would judge him and, by association, Jane, by what he said next.

"Ladies, your servant. Torrenham," he hissed, "this is not the time or the place!"

"Then name the time and place!"

"I shall, but not in front of these ladies, or in the presence of the Queen, whom you seem to have forgotten. You shall hear from me tomorrow. Good day to you."

Torrenham's mother and sister pulled him away, whispering frantically. A little ripple of gossip spread out in a widening circle from Tavington's party.

"—Insulted his mother! Right here in St. James Palace!"

"—I wonder if it will be swords or pistols?"

"—Scandalous! Perhaps Torrenham will apologize—"

"William," Jane said grimly. "I don't want you to fight."

Tavington sighed in irritation. Fanshawe was mightily amused by it all. "Do you wish me to serve as your second?" he asked.

"No, but I thank you, my lord. I wish this to be as quiet as possible, and if you are involved, Lady Fanshawe may be discussed, too. I can at least protect her by not involving you. I shall have my brother visit Torrenham. I cannot overlook such an insult." He looked Jane in the eye. "Can I?"

"I suppose not," she agreed, very ungraciously.

Once again, she wished she had never come to Court. The Queen's attempts at conversation were certainly not worth a duel.

-----

**Next chapter: Affairs of Honor **


	56. Affairs of Honor

**Chapter 56: Affairs of Honor **

The gray light of a cold January morning was brightened by filaments of rose and apricot clouds in the east. The sun would rise within minutes, and it was just possible it would be Tavington's last dawn.

Not likely, but bad luck was always a possibility. It was chilly enough that he remained in the coach, waiting for Torrenham to arrive in this quiet corner of Hyde Park. John sat across from his, glumly regarding his pocket watch. To his right. Francis Rawdon napped—or pretended to nap—his eyes shut and his long legs stretched out before him. Beside John was an army surgeon of whom Rawdon thought highly, David McArdle, come to treat any wounds ensuing from this morning's events. Tavington's pistols, shining clean and loaded, were in their case.

John and Rawdon had called on Torrenham yesterday, while his lordship's mother and sisters sobbed in the next room. They had made the arrangements and told Tavington the weapons were to be pistols.

"Better than swords, Tavington," Rawdon informed him cheerfully. "No one need be hurt at all with pistols, if you both keep your heads. Demanding it be sabres, what with your reputation as a swordsman, would be very bad form. Pistols are best in these cases."

"I daresay. Rather than carving him up, I can simply blow his head off."

"Be sensible, Tavington. You can do nothing of sort. If you kill the fellow, you'd have to leave the country, and where would you go? We're at war with the world! Fire into the air—er, no—into the ground." Rawdon burst out laughing, to John's annoyance. "Sorry, Sir John. It's just that I knew a fellow once who fired into the air and the bloody ball came right down and wounded him in the shoulder! Silliest damned thing you ever saw!"

John grinned in spite of himself. "Into the ground then. I'll remember that, if I'm ever so unfortunate as to find myself duelling. Fire into the ground, Will. And don't get shot. The ball tonight would have to be cancelled, you know."

"Yes, Jane!" Tavington said sarcastically. "You sound like my wife, the both of you!"

"I consider that a compliment," Rawdon said primly. "Mrs. Tavington is a woman of very nice judgement. I'm sure she did not carry on like Lady Torrenham and her daughters."

"No, but she told me that if I were so careless as to let myself be killed by Torrenham and miss the ball tonight, she'd hunt him down and shoot him herself."

"Hot tempered, too," John remarked, taking it as a joke.

Rawdon laughed, the curious braying laugh that always made Tavington smile. _Let them laugh._ Tavington was not sure she was joking. She and his sisters had been very quiet at dinner that night, knowing better than to plead with him. Upstairs, he and Jane had made passionate and satisfying love together, and then, just as he was falling asleep, she had spoken softly into the darkness.

_"If by some ill chance that wretched man should---well, I won't let him strut about afterwards—I'll shoot him down like a dog!" _

_"No one's getting shot down like a dog, Jane,"_ he had mumbled. "_It is simply a duel. We'll fire into the air and then go our separate ways." _

_"I certainly hope you don't shoot him, William. If you did, you'd only prove him right."_

Torrenham could no more afford to kill him, than he could afford to kill Torrenham. This was not war, but a personal quarrel, and reasonable men knew how to conduct affairs of honor. _Though sometimes-- _

"There he is," Rawdon said. Another carriage, this one's door displaying the Torrenham coat of arms, appeared through the trees. Tavington and his party exited the coach and stood waiting. Torrenham emerged from the coach and would have fallen to the ground, had it not been for his footman. He laughed, and the rest of his friends appeared. They had evidently never gone to bed, for they were in evening dress and extremely drunk. One of them staggered over to Tavington, and attempted to play the part of the concerned second.

"Good day to you, gentlemen! Ah, Colonel Tavington! A word with you, sir." He swayed on his feet, trying to focus. "If you will apologize to Torrenham, this business need go no farther. The remedy lies with you." He smiled with satisfaction at a mission accomplished.

"I beg your pardon," Rawdon broke in coldly, "but we feel that is Lord Torrenham's place to offer an apology. Colonel Tavington considers himself the injured party. Consult with your friend, sir, and see if he is inclined to be reasonable."

"Reasonable?" Torrenham stumbled toward them, his eyes fixed on Tavington. "Apologize to _him?_ Out of the question. I told you we'd meet, sooner or later, Tavington. You don't have your bully boy dragoons with you today. I know more than you think about the things you did in America. What are you going to do? Burn my house down? Shoot me in the back?"

Tavington heard his brother's furious hiss. He laid his hand on his arm, feeling oddly at home with this kind of hostility. "In point of fact," he said coolly, "I don't recall ever shooting anyone in the _back, _except for cowardly rebels running to save their worthless hides. I shot a few in the face, though," he said, staring Torrenham down. "It made a frightful mess."

Torrenham was drunk, but coldly angry with it. "Today you will face an armed man. I hope it will not be too inconvenient for you."

Rawdon sighed deeply. "I suppose it is too much to hope for that the two of you might be persuaded to set aside your differences and shake hands?"

Tavington snorted, "Unlikely at this point."

"Out of the question," Torrenham agreed.

"Very well, let us have a look at the pistols."

The seconds –at least Rawdon and Sir John--arranged the business very efficiently. Mr. McArdle was introduced, and Torrenham granted him a brusque nod. The principals chose their weapons and took their places, waiting for Rawdon's signal to begin.

Tavington stood calmly, feeling the light cold wind on his face. Hyde Park was a muted palette of browns and greys in winter, a drab place to take leave of life, if such was his fate today. Tavington had told Jane that this duel was a matter of form, but that was not entirely true. Torrenham appeared to have taken a genuine dislike to him. Whether from guilt or shame or politics, or simply a petty spite at being thwarted when he was winning at cards, this man had become a genuine enemy. It would not do to be careless. If he were killed, Jane might kill his opponent or she might not—but she would certainly never forgive _him. _

Rawdon was counting, low and slow. Tavington walked forward, the frozen grass crunching beneath his boots. One—two—three—

One of the Torrenham's friend's coughed. There was a brief laugh from another—a silly, drunken laugh. Four—five—six—

Three poor children were watching the duel, some twenty yards away, whispering behind an elm. Tavington twitched a smile at the solemn little girls. Seven—eight—nine—

"Ten! Turn, gentlemen!"

Tavington pivoted on his right heel. The woods wheeled around, and Tavington found himself looking down the barrel of the pistol held in Torrenham's fist. The nobleman was glaring at him, lips pulled back from his teeth in a rictus of hatred. There was a split-second of anxiety and then the roar of a gunshot. He almost started at the sudden thunderclap. The gunshot was echoed by the shrill screams of the little girls, and the sounds of their footsteps, running away through the brittle underbrush. A hot wind fanned his cheek. A tree behind him splintered as the ball thudded into it. Torrenham had intended to kill him, and had damned near done it.

Tavington could hear John's gasp of horror, and Rawdon's deep sigh of relief. Furious in his turn, Tavington extended his arm, and slowly pointed his pistol at Torrenham, who paled with the realization that he had spent his shot too quickly, and that Tavington now had all the time in the world to fire.

The pistol was heavy. Tavington was not sure how long he could aim it before his hand became unsteady. Even were it only a minute, he reflected happily, it would seem an hour to Torrenham.

His opponent had drawn himself up, tense and expectant, his side presented to Tavington, as offering the smallest target. He was even sucking in his stomach, which made Tavington smile. It was not a nice smile. Tavington considered his options, and moved the muzzle of the pistol, sighting down the barrel directly at Torrenham's right eye. A mutter of anxious conversation. Rawdon cleared his throat. Tavington ignored everything but the man who had dared to threaten his life today. Torrenham was wilting rapidly, and Tavington smile grew wolfish. _Let him remember this day. _

"Get on with it!" one of Torrenham's friends called out.

"Hard luck on Torrenham," one of the muttered to his companions. "What with the odds on Tavington, Torrenham was set to make a pretty penny if he killed his man today."

_He was going to kill me to win a bet?_ Tavington snarled, and his finger twitched on the trigger.

"You were going to kill me for _money,_ you cowardly filth? Better men than you have tried to kill me, and every one of them is rotting his grave. A fool and his money are soon parted."

How he would love to finish off this scoundrel. Jane's words came back to him, unbidden. _"If you kill him, you'll simply prove him right about you." _

"That's enough, Tavington," Rawdon said quietly. "Let's finish this. Don't torture him."

"You're right." Tavington smiled, and prepared to fire. Torrenham was white with fear, and abruptly bent double and vomited into the dry grass.

Ignoring the muffled groans and cries of "Shame," Tavington swung his pistol to the side, and fired into the ground.

"You may have come here to kill me today, Torrenham, but I had not the least of intention of killing you. I am a Christian gentleman and a soldier of the King, and I kill England's enemies, not casual, rude acquaintances for an idle wager. Stay out of my sight. You were lucky today, though you may not realize it."

Rawdon threw him a grim look and called out, "Gentlemen, will you declare your honor satisfied, or do you wish to continue?"

"I'm quite finished here, my lord," Tavington replied.

"Very well. Torrenham?"

Torrenham straightened painfully, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. He looked at Tavington with loathing, and hesitated. Tavington hoped he would not be so stupid as to demand another shot_. If he does, I shall have no choice but to kill him, and that will complicate my life in all sorts of undesirable ways._ He stared hard at his opponent, willing him to see reason.

"I am—satisfied, Rawdon."

"Then shake hands, and let's say no more about the business."

Tavington steeled himself and walked over. There was a brief touching of their hands, which ended with both men struggling not to wipe them off in front of the assembled witnesses. Tavington nodded to them all curtly and turned to walk back to the carriage. Rawdon went to retrieve Tavington's pistol from the humiliated Torrenham. The surgeon looked relieved that he had no work before him, and took a sip of the brandy he had at hand in case of wounds.

John fell into step beside his brother, and put a hand on his back. "For a minute there I thought you were going to shoot him."

"For a minute I thought I would, too. I wonder how much he lost by not killing me?"

"More than he can afford, no doubt. It won't make him like you any better."

"Fair enough. I don't like him at all."

A far more cheerful group drove back to Mortimer Square, where Rawdon and McArdle were invited to join the Tavingtons for breakfast. They were greeted by Jane, Caroline, and Penelope, all of them very happy to see Tavington alive and unhurt. He answered their unspoken questions at once.

"No, I did not shoot Lord Torrenham. He shot at me, but missed: I simply fired into the ground. So you see—it's over and no harm done."

Jane was unsatisfied. "He actually tried to shoot you!"

John told her, "Apparently he had wagered on the outcome. I am happy to say he seems to have lost a considerable sum."

"Perhaps that will teach him not to challenge a soldier at his own business!" laughed Rawdon. "And now, Mrs. Tavington, you need not fear for your ball tonight!"

-----

Jane was resigned to a black ball gown. Hers was actually very nice. She would be wearing black for months, so it was a relief to find that well-made black clothing did not look so ill on her. William, of course, looked handsome in anything. In fact, the black garb brought out the brightness of his eyes. No doubt the ladies assembled would be swooning over him. The fact that he had fought a duel that very morning would only add to his reputation.

_Don't be ridiculous,_ she told herself firmly. _We _want _the ladies to swoon over him._ _It's useful, as long as they don't carry it too far, and William doesn't do more than flirt. _

She refused to let Pullen powder her hair. Something about the dust made her sneeze convulsively. It was bad enough being near other people's powdered hair. The day after the Drawing Room, Pullen had washed all the powder and pomade from her hair, rinsed it with lavender and chamomile, and curled it anew, complaining of the difficulty of dressing fresh-washed hair. Jane did not care. The washing and the subsequent rinse had given her light brown hair an uncommon shine. With black clothing, too, the powder tended to drift down and showed terribly on her shoulders. This more natural look was preferable. If her hair must be powdered in future, perhaps she would wear a wig made with naturally white hair, and keep her own hair cleaner thereby.

She had ordered a very pretty pair of high-heeled slippers in black grosgrain with black velvet shoe roses. They even fit fairly well. Jane had taken to wearing them since they were delivered, trying to break them in a little, so she would not have blisters after a night on her feet.

Caroline and Penelope had entered into the spirit of the affair, ordering very becoming gowns. Not black, of course. Jane approved the silvery blue charmeuse of Caroline's polonaise, and the coral pink damask of Penelope's. Lucy had not attended a ball in years, and would be resplendent in a gown of shimmering dark gold taffeta. Jane had no idea what kind of jewelry Lucy might have for such an occasion, but Caroline and Penelope owned some very good pieces indeed.

Their dinner was eaten in the breakfast room, for the dining room was arranged for the late supper that would be served to the guests. Rivers had looked in on the musicians, tuning up in the ballroom, and reported to Jane that all was well there.

"Very respectable men, Madam. They will be fed in the kitchen while the guests are at supper. While they dine, they will take it in turn to come upstairs and entertain the guests. I made clear that we must have music throughout the meal."

"It sounds splendid, Rivers. Thank you for all your hard work."

The house looked perfect. Vases were filled with white hothouse flowers: gardenias, jasmine, camellias, stephanotis, lilies. The air was redolent with their fragrance. Jane hoped it would cover some of the less appealing smells that arose in rooms fills with people eating heartily and dancing vigorously. She had hardly seen the ballroom before preparing for this occasion. The pastel plasterwork of the ceiling was entrancingly ornate. No, it was not Fanshawe House, with its classical pillars and air of antique splendor. This was quite a different sort of place, and with proper care, it looked bright and welcoming, as well as elegant.

William's portrait had been hung in the ballroom in the middle of the long wall opposite the doors. She was sorry she had not yet had the time to visit Sir Joshua's studio. It was a marvelous picture, and nearly did justice to William's handsome face and figure_. I wish I were a bit better-looking,_ she sighed to herself. _I think it would be so delightful to have my portrait painted—except the painter might make me look even worse than I think I look! Still, a picture with my little boys when they are older would be so sweet. At the very least, I shall have a miniatures made of them as soon as they are—I don't know—five or six._

Thinking of miniatures made her think of her mother's portrait, which she kept on her dressing table. _I should have it more elegantly framed, and hang it in my room._ _There are all sorts of things I can do with my room, if it is really to be mine. _She had become accustomed to the heavy, old-fashioned furniture. In fact, she rather liked it now, since it reminded her of the Elizabethan grandeur of Wargrave. She did not like the hangings, though, nor the cracked green morocco leather upholstery in the chairs and benches. Now that the rest of the house was much improved, she would think about decorating her room more to her own taste.

_The Willow Room should be hung in green—the rich green of my malachite box! I shall buy some pretty ornaments for the room—some Wedgwood vases, perhaps. I could enlarge the little cupboard at the end of the hall and make it a dressing room where Pullen can sleep. I could partition off a section for another water closet. If I could persuade William to move into Letty's old room, I could have a door cut into the wall to allow us free access into one another's rooms without all the tiptoeing down the hall. _

She smiled to herself, picturing her improvements, as she walked downstairs to inspect the ground floor. The dining room was filled with extra tables and chairs for the supper. It too was decorated with fragrant white flowers. Her sisters-in-law had advised her about the supper, and the menu seemed very promising. Jane wanted the evening to be pleasant and enjoyable for her guests, rather than extravagant and intimidating, as thus she chose food that she was sure would be agreeable to everyone. The library was in good order, the billiard room ready to entertain the gentlemen. The study had been locked, and would remain so. Too many important papers were kept there to allow guests to casually rummage about. The morning room looked very nice, too, but she knew of no reason the guests would be coming in here. The breakfast room was already tidied from their dinner.

It was a beautiful house, and she was coming to love it. It was full of delightful objects. She paused in the hall, admiring the curio cabinet filled with Dresden figurines and Chinese jades and Russian amber carvings. There were mosaics pieces from Tuscany, and an Indian goddess in ivory that Jane loved. There was a collection of jeweled snuffboxes on the middle shelf. In the center was placed the Death of General Wolfe snuffbox that had caused so much trouble. Jane still considered it absurd, but it had been a gift, and if Lord Colchester noticed it, he would see that she was showing gratitude and respect to him. She felt ready to face him, and Kitty Sattersby, too!

The only anxiety this evening was Lady Cecily. Mrs. Watkins had given her an unwelcome surprise early this afternoon, going out unexpectedly and sending a note telling her of a sick sister that she must go and nurse. It was terribly awkward. Fabienne was instructed to sit up with Lady Cecily this evening, and Caroline and Penelope would look in on their mother occasionally. Just when everything became too complicated, a Mrs. Venable arrived, bearing a note and a reference from Mrs. Watkins. Mrs. Venable had long experience as a sick nurse, knew how to administer the laudanum drops that Lady Cecily required, and would be happy to take care of the poor lady for a few days until her friend was once again at their service. She was a stick-thin woman, with enormous red knuckles and very large and yellow teeth. Jane did not much like the look of her, but they had little choice. She rebuked herself for judging by appearances.

After settling the issue of pay, she admitted, "We shall be very glad of your help. We ask only that you remember Lady Cecily's age and station, and treat her appropriately. She is very dear to her children."

"Of course, ma'am. I'll see to her. Don't you give it a thought!"

Caroline had not been so easily soothed, and had accompanied Mrs. Venable up to Lady Cecily's apartments, showing her where the drugs were kept, introducing her to Fabienne, and telling her that she would come up around ten o'clock to see if her mother was settled for the night. Jane, in her turn, fed the babies, and spent some time playing with Ash before letting Pullen finish preparing her for the ball.

Just before eight o'clock, the Tavingtons gathered in the ballroom to greet their guests. The women admired Tavington's portrait: the men talked about the early morning duel.

"Thank God that none of our guests are friendly with Torrenham or his connections," John said. "It would make it all dashed awkward. With any luck the fellow will take himself off to the country and hide his face for awhile. Disgraceful business!"

"John," Tavington grinned. "Did you wager on me?"

"I would have," his brother replied honestly, "but I couldn't find anyone to take my money. The odds were all on you. Anyway, Torrenham may be angry, but I imagine that his womenfolk are singing your praises tonight, now that they have him home safe and sound."

"I doubt it," Tavington replied with shrug. "I'm sure the whole episode has been twisted to my disadvantage. I really don't care though. Torrenham's one of Rockingham's clique, and a friend of Fox, and there nothing I despise more than a Whig!"

"Not all the Whigs are so bad, Will. You mustn't be so tied to a party. I heard a young fellow in the debate last week—William Pitt, old Chatham's younger son—"

"He was reared to be a politician, but he can't be much over twenty-one, John!"

"Not much, but he talks good sense. He says he's a Whig, but an _independent_ Whig. He's much in his father's vein, especially in his views on America. I thought I might put him up for a membership at White's."

"Do you really think he'd join?"

"Don't know. Worth a try--a bit of conciliation, you know. I invited him and a few of his friends tonight. He said he'd come."

"You did?" Tavington thought it over. John was in the Commons, after all, and had to compromise and collaborate with all sorts of men with all sorts of views. The elder Pitt, the Earl of Chatham, had opposed the King's American policies, not because he favored American independence, but because he thought the policies were misguided, and would lead to the very thing they were intended to repress. Uncomfortably, Tavington acknowledged that the grand old man might have been a true prophet.

The front door was opened below. Someone was being shown upstairs. To his pleasure, Lucy and Protheroe were announced, the very first arrivals.

"Oh, Lucy!" Caroline cried. "You look beautiful, dearest!"

Tavington smiled at the sight and went to greet her. His youngest sister did indeed look lovely. He was not sure when he had seen her looking better, even in the freshness of her first youth. In her golden gown, she looked like a queen. _Or rather handsomer,_ he thought wryly, remembering Queen Charlotte. Protheroe was grinning like an idiot, proud beyond measure of his wife. Tavington still wished Lucy had married better, but he could not help liking Protheroe, and admitted that having a clever lawyer in the family had its advantages. Just behind the couple was old Mr Protheroe, Edward's father, stumping along, smiling broadly. He had not been in this house since Lucy eloped. Quickly, Tavington introduced him to Jane, whom he had not yet met.

There was little time for chat, for the guests were arriving thick and fast. Rawdon came early, teasing Tavington about dueling, but more about the possibility of meeting an heiress tonight. Tavington had not seen his female St. Leger cousins in years, but had heard they were an attractive group of girls, with thirty thousand pounds apiece. A great deal of money: but Rawdon would no doubt require it.

Tavington's portrait was much admired, especially by Rawdon, who made them all laugh by his vocal praise of the good likeness of the horse. A rumble and bustle, and "The Earl of Colchester" was announced.

The man himself seem to take up a quarter of the room, with his waving arms and his loud voice and his vitality. The Sattersbys followed more sedately in his train. They were greeted very kindly by all. Tavington watched Jane, unobserved, and was pleased and touched by her calm smile and well-chosen words. Colchester's greeting showed her to be a favorite of his, and he began telling Penelope about the great doings at Wargrave. And then he saw Lucy, and was too overcome with emotion to speak much to anyone but her for half an hour. But Tavington had overheard enough to understand that the prayed-for event had take place, and that Kitty was once again expecting a child. When quizzed discreetly by the womenfolk, she told them " August."

"I am so ill in the morning," she complained. "I shall enjoy this evening the more for it. Bill says we must leave early, so I get my rest. I expect we shall be gone a little after supper time. I am not to dance, either, which seems a shame."

"A great shame," Caroline replied kindly, "but your health must be everyone's first consideration."

Tavington was still hanging back, trying to understand himself. He had braced himself to feel drawn in by Kitty's charms once more, but in fact he felt nothing. Kitty had glanced at him--a secret, longing glance, full of meaning. Sattersby clung to her side, watching her jealously, but had been distracted by a question from Caroline and had missed the look. Tavington simply bowed to her, and greeted his cousin politely. He had no particular desire tonight to embroil himself in things that could only lead to unpleasantness. Kitty was very pretty, and was nicely dressed, but his heart, he found, did not thrill at the sight of her.

John drew close, and muttered, "You're looking at her again. Behave yourself."

"I shall, I assure you. It's very curious, but I no longer—find her irrestistible. She is as handsome as ever, but something has changed."

"Yes. You."

He left then, to greet the Parrotts. Tavington wondered if his brother was right. He moved over to Jane's side, and joined her conversation with the Tazewells, still puzzling over his lack of reaction to Kitty.

Lord and Lady Melmerby arrived with their bevy of beautiful young daughters. St. Leger came a little later, along with his elder brother and his wife. The musicians were playing some pleasant airs, and the sound of music and conversation rose with the scent of white flowers.

The portrait was admired some more, Little groups stood before it, discussing the striking _contraposto_ of the pose. Sir Joshua Reynolds arrived, and was greeted as a champion of portraiture.

Jane was looking anxiously for Letty. The dancing would soon begin, and there was no sign of the Fanshawes. She had not seen her sister since the Queen's Drawing Room and still had impressions she wanted to share with her about that great event.

Other people came instead, and were announced, some political friends of John's. One name she recognized, and was surprised to see the man was so young, until John explained to her that this Mr. Pitt was the son of the Pitt of famous memory. He was a slender, not unattractive young man, whom she suspected had not come to dance, but to talk politics. It was an outrage against women that a man would come to a ballroom and not dance with the ladies in it, but as long as he behaved himself, he was welcome for John's sake.

"The Viscount and The Viscountess Fanshawe" entered at last, looking like the perfect couple. They were both clad in magnificent black, and their hair was perfectly white. Jane personally thought Letty looked better with her naturally black hair, but their appearance certainly had an impact. Letty was by far the most beautiful woman in the room: Kitty Sattersby was lovely in her own way, Lady Helena was the prettiest in a family of pretty daughters, but Letty outshone them all. She was the lodestar of feminine attractive in the room: the men, attached and unattached, gravitated her way.

Lord Fanshawe smiled, very pleased with the sensation their entrance had made. He spoke briefly with Sir Joshua. His own praise of the portrait was more specific, more measured, and therefore more precious and impressive than the unthinking words of others. Jane liked the picture because it was of William, but it was interesting to hear Lord Fanshawe discoursing on why it was also Good Art.

They opened the dancing. With all the extra guests, there would be at least fifteen to sixteen couples dancing at a time, but the ballroom was large enough to hold them comfortably. As always, there were older men and women who had no intention of dancing, but seated themselves on the sidelines, content to watch and gossip. Card tables were set up in the drawing room for those who preferred that pastime.

Tavington led Jane out to begin the minuets. They stood facing each other smiling, and moved effortlessly into the figures of the dance. It was promising to the best ball of Jane's life. Much as she would like to, Jane did not feel she could spend the evening dancing. She must see that her guests were cared for and acknowledged.

To that end, she had given Tavington strict instructions to dance every dance, if possible, and to make a point of asking ladies who seemed to be neglected. She had suggested as much to John, too, with a look as reproachful as it was pleading. He laughed and agreed, and Jane was satisfied to have carried her point. She would dance with those male guests who asked her, but she was not in one place often enough for many to track her down.

Lord Colchester did, of course, feeling that he would be a bad guest if he neglected Jane. She appreciated the good-nature behind his request, though he really was quite a bit like a dancing bear. Rawdon asked her as well; and St. Leger, and Tazewell: men whom she was beginning to see in the light of friends. Bellini arrived and could not be refused a dance.

Letty was being greatly admired by all. Jane heard the comments on her sister's elegance and beauty as she passed by. Gossip about her fine appearance at Court was spread: the Queen's admiration for her looks and modesty, the Princess Royal's desire to know her better.

She glanced over at the Sattersbys. His lordship was guarding his lady like a dragon. Because she knew she ought to, Jane forced herself to go over and speak to them. They were only briefly in town: to consult a physician for Lady Sattersby's benefit.

"I hope you are well, my lady, " Jane said. "I hope you choose your medical man with great care. There are so many charlatans setting up as doctors these days. I am quite horrified to hear of how they prescribe. A woman is always the best judge of how she feels."

Kitty Sattersby nodded hesitantly, also bound by good breeding to answer politely. "You are very kind to concern yourself. I am very well, but I have been disappointed in the past."

"Did you find Dorset pleasant?"

"Oh!" Kitty glanced at her impassive husband. "It was well enough. The house is very fine, and I have plenty of resources to entertain myself. Bill and his father were out shooting every day, I declare!"

"Was the sport successful, my lord?"

"Not bad. Better than some years. I heard there was plenty of game at Wargrave this year."

"Indeed there was. Lord Colchester gave us a good gundog. He is such a clever creature."

Jane told them briefly of Rambler's pursuit of them to London, which the couple found an acceptably pleasant anecdote. At the end of the story, Jane asked, "After supper we shall have some music. Will you feel equal to favoring us with your beautiful performance on the harp?"

Kitty was surprised and softened by the application. "Yes—I'd would be delighted. I have practiced and practiced while in Dorset."

"Then I shall look forward to it."

Others were coming to speak to the Sattersbys, and Jane went on to the next group needing attention: the Carterets. Lady Carteret seemed very unwell, but determined to be there. Since her husband was in attendance, she would be forced to eat only gruel at supper, but Jane had seen to it that it would be the best possible gruel, sweetened with honey and applesauce, and enriched with cream. Best of all, it would be done so her husband could not detect the improvements.

Lord Carteret was a decent enough man otherwise, but Jane felt real satisfaction in subverting the silly fancies of someone made a ninny by a smooth-talking quack. When the day came that Lady Carteret could not leave the house, Jane was resolved to visit her with nourishing food, even if it meant smuggling chicken sandwiches in her workbasket.

With some probing, Jane discovered that Lady Carteret and Lady Sattersby had some slight acquaintance. Jane reintroduced them, and was happy to see them talking pleasantly together. After a few minutes, the two gentlemen rose to visit the card room, but at the least the ladies had each other.

There were the Melmerbys and the Thurstons, the Parrotts (_ugh!), _and Mr. and Mrs. Dunstable, friends of Penelope who were active in the supporting the Foundling Hospital. Jane stared at Tavington until he asked Melinda Parrott to join him in a quadrille.

A few more gentlemen were trickling in. "Colonel Tarleton" was announced, and he came over to kiss her hand, beaming with pleasure at the scene.

"I can see you have spared no efforts, Mrs. Tavington! What a splendid affair! Where is Tavington? I must hear all about The Trouncing of Torrenham!"

"He is dancing with Miss Parrott, as you see. Perhaps you too, will partner one of the young ladies before supper is announced?"

"I shall dance with _you _with greatest pleasure, dear lady!"

In fact, he was thinking that either his judgement had been much in error, or that Mrs. Tavington was much improved since last they met. Tavington had done well for himself. A well-looking, elegant woman, and twenty thousand pounds!

Jane smiled. He was such a boy in some ways that she could never fancy him, but he amused her nonetheless.

"I hope we may before the evening is out. However, I was more concerned for Lady Imogen St. Leger, who is sitting down. You see the lovely young lady—over there? She is the Marquess of Melmerby's daughter."

Tarleton's eyes lit up. He had heard of the beauty and wealth of the St. Leger girls. Mrs. Robinson was the joy of his life, but she was not _here,_ and at a ball, a man must dance!

"Pray present me to her, Mrs. Tavington!"

As the last dances before supper were in progress, Jane was feeling that the ball was a great success. The room was full of light and music and swirling colors. If only nothing untoward would happen.

Rivers called out, bursting with pride, "His Royal Highness, The Prince of Wales! Sir Edward Claypoole! Colonel Lake!"

The music faltered to a stop. Everyone turned, whispering and wide-eyed, to see the uninvited guests. The heir to the throne strolled in, accompanied by a pair of equerries. Sir John excused himself to Mrs. Tazewell and hurried to the doorway, Tavington detached himself from Miss Parrott. Jane was closest, and curtsied deeply.

"Your Royal Highness, you honor us!"

"Not at all! Not at all, Madam! A mere lark—a flight of fancy. Come--do not let me spoil this delightful soirée!"

The Tavington brothers were bowing. The rest of the room was on its feet, bowing, too. The Prince took it all as his due.

"This is splendid! So unaffected, so full of simple enjoyment!" He lowered his voice, smiling charmingly at Tavington. "I had to hear more of the hero's exploits. The whole town is talking about how you gave Lord Torrenham such a set-down. You are uninjured, I hope."

"Entirely, Your Royal Highness."

"Well, that's dashed good to hear! Sir John, this is a rare pleasure. Such a lot of delightful people—what beautiful ladies!"

His eyes were of course on Letty. He approached her, made a courtly bow, and begged to be allowed to partner her in this dance. Fanshawe gave Letty an ironic nod. Letty looked her apology to her partner, Lord Thurston, who hastily backed away, leaving the Prince to take Letty's hand. Jane signed to the musicians, who immediately started playing once more.

She sighed to her husband, "I shall have to rearrange the seating at supper. Instantly."

-----

Hasty rearrangements or no, the ball must be accounted a great success. The supper was devoured with evident enjoyment—and not even the royal Prince's appetite pleased Jane as much as Lady Carteret's enjoyment of the doctored gruel. She exchanged a discreet smile with Jane, and whispered in Letty's ear.

Perhaps Letty even heard her, if that whisper was not completely drowned out by the sallies of the Prince of Wales, who must sit by Lady Fanshawe and tell her silly stories about America, where she had lived most of her life.. His admiration knew no bounds when she sang, accompanied by Bellini.

There were several lady performers: Lady Sattersby's harp performance had actually improved greatly during her rustication in Dorset. The St. Leger girls sang a part-song together that was, wonder of wonders, in tune and in time. Jane had tried to discover every lady who had the slightest pretension to musical talent. Caro and Pen had told her they did not wish to perform, since as hostesses they wanted to leave the field to others, but there were several young ladies who had come prepared to exhibit their accomplishments.

Bellini, when privately applied to, assured Jane that he would be honored to sing, but only if she would accompany him. The piece was not too difficult: a ringing aria by Handel from _Alexander's Feast_ that spoke to many a man present:

_"War, he sang, is toil and trouble, _

_Honour but an empty bubble. _

_Never ending, __Still beginning— _

_Fighting still and still destroying, _

_Fighting still and still destroying! _

_If the world be worth thy winning, _

_If the world by worth thy winning, _

_Think, oh, think it worth enjoying!" _

Thunderous applause greeted the singer's last notes. Bellini bowed deeply, first to the Prince, and then to the rest of the company. He acknowledged Jane, who glowed with pleasure. What would her family in Charlestown think if they knew she had played for the Prince of Wales? Her eyes sparkled, her wide mouth looked well enough in a happy smile. She did not know that she was on her way to a reputation as a charming, accomplished woman. It was enough that she was enjoying herself and all her guests were having a good time.

The dancing began again. The Prince remembered his manners, and asked Mrs. Tavington to partner him. He was a tallish man, but no taller than William, so it was not difficult to dance with him. She thought him a bit vain and silly—though she knew she should make allowances for his youth--but he did dance extremely well, and knew it.

After their dance, she slipped away for a little while, to see to the babies, and left Caroline and Penelope as her deputies. The upstairs hall was blessedly cool and quiet. There was not a sound from Lady Cecily's room. It surprised her a little, until she realized that Mrs. Venable would have undoubtedly drugged her charge to help her sleep through the noise of the ball.

"Oh, Mrs. Tavington!" cried Pullen, as she helped Jane arrange her gown. "The ball is so splendid. Mrs. Royston took a peek down the stairs. Such beautiful dresses! I saw one—the primrose yellow one on that red-haired lady that I thought might do for you. I like the sleeves very well—but perhaps in a deep violet for you—in a few months."

Jane settled back for some needed rest, and kissed her little boys.

Moll asked, wide-eyed, "Is it true that the Prince is here? In this house?"

"Yes, Moll! In this very house. You see before you a woman who has danced with the Prince of Wales!"

"You don't say! That's mighty fine. I'll have a tale to tell Tom when I see him. He'll be spitting mad to think what he missed."

It did not take long. Jane felt she could not rest as long as she would like. She must not miss the departure of the Prince, and she did not want to slight anyone else. She slipped back downstairs and glanced into the ballroom to see that all was well.

The Prince was dancing with Lady Sattersby, much to her husband's displeasure. Jane thought a little exercise should not hurt her, and it would be pleasing to her pride and make her think well of the evening.

The cardplayers were happily engrossed. One of them, Mr. Pitt, rose to speak briefly to Jane.

"Mrs. Tavington, I thank you for a most enjoyable evening. I am not a dancing man, but I am very fond of music, and rarely have I heard a better professional concert than the impromptu entertainment tonight."

"You are too kind—"

"—And your own performance on the harpsichord was excellent. I am a judge of such things. It was very well done indeed. Your choice of song for Bellini was a wise one, and most apropos—it is indeed time to set aside toil and trouble and make peace with the world. Very perceptive of you."

Jane refrained from protesting that the choice was entirely Bellini's own, and she had never thought about the subject at all. Sometimes it did not hurt to be thought wiser or wittier than one actually was.

"I am very happy that you came, then, Mr. Pitt, and that you had a pleasant evening under our roof. Sir John speaks of you with great respect."

He bowed, "And I am glad that I came. One should not prejudge people and events, lest one forfeit an enjoyable experience."

She smiled, wondering if this all had some political meaning that she could not grasp. She would pass on the message to John tomorrow, and think no more about it.

Hours passed. Dancers kept at it—how, Jane did not know. Some guests began to take their leave: the Carterets, the Protheroes, the Sattersbys—expectant mothers with their protective husbands. The older ladies were yawning behind their fans. Jane was rather tired herself.

By the time the clock struck three, the Prince had had a last dance with Letty and been escorted away by his attendants. Letty, too, was flagging, and Fanshawe considered that they had stayed long enough to cause the maximum amount of admiring gossip.

The clock struck four. Sir Joshua departed. The St. Leger girls were herded away, protesting that _they were not tired at all. _Only a quartet of officers remained, playing whist in the drawing room. Lord Colchester was snoring in a gilt chair in the ballroom, his head thrown back. Sir John had fallen asleep, too, his head comically on his uncle's shoulder. Caroline and Penelope looked wretchedly tired. They had indeed danced quite a bit, but were ready for their beds. Jane saw them off with kisses and mutual congratulations.

The musicians, too, were hollow-eyed. Bellini knew some of them, and laughed deeply, sympathizing with their plight.

"A magnificent evening, Signora. It will not be soon forgotten—by me, too. I must go, alas. I have a rehearsal in the afternoon. I shall sleep, and dream of white flowers." With another deep bow, he turned on his heel and was gone.

Jane and Tavington were alone in the ballroom with the musicians.

"It wants a few minutes of five, Jane. Would you honor me with this dance?"

Obliging, a pair of oboes struck up a last minuet in a minor key. Jane smiled with pleasant melancholy, her eyes fixed on her husband. A cello joined the tune, and then the weary keyboard player. The violin players looked at each other, and then grudgingly began to play.

Tavington smiled back at his wife. A very good evening. Jane had done well. Perhaps the pleasant party at Wargrave had given her practice for the wider canvas of London. And the Prince had come! However little he thought of the young man personally, the presence of the heir to the throne would seal the success of the ball. There would probably be a paragraph about it in the _Morning Post. _

The dance ended, and there was a smattering of applause from the doorway. Tarleton lounged there with his fellow players. The noise awakened John and Lord Colchester, who snorted loudly, bewildered to find himself in a ballroom.

"Well danced, upon my honor," said Tarleton, with a wry grin. "Well, Tavington you have danced us all down! A capital evening. Dear lady," he bowed to Jane. "I am obliged to you for a memorable first party in London. But now, I must away!"

The others made their farewells. The musicians were dismissed, and packed up their instruments quickly, off to see Rivers, who had their money. John was asleep on his feet, and Tavington told a tired footman to help him to bed. Lord Colchester assured them that he could manage to walk across the square.

"A sorry thing if a man can't see himself home! Thank you both, my dear children, for a happy time! So many good friends!"

As the front door closed after him, the clock struck five. Jane could hardly believe she was still awake.

"William, I'm so tired," Jane complained, "My feet are throbbing, and my head is aching, and I—"

"Here," he said briskly, sweeping her up in his arms. "I'll carry you upstairs, you poor frail damsel."

He took off running up the stairs, Jane's silken gown crumpled up and trailing.

"Stop!" she laughed, hoping none of the servants would see them. "Put me down!"

"Oh, I couldn't do that!" he smirked. "I couldn't put you on your tiny throbbing feet. I shall have to throw you into bed directly, and then rip your garments from your trembling limbs!"

There was a muffled guffaw from behind a drapery. It sounded like their footman, Peter. He would certainly have gossip for the kitchen.

The upstairs hall was silent. Tavington paused, and proceeded on tiptoe to Jane's room. Pullen heard them coming, and opened the door.

"Bless me, Madam!," she whispered anxiously, "Are you hurt?"

"No, not at all," Jane assured her. "I complained of my sore feet to the Colonel, and he took me at my word. Don't take me to the bed, William. Set me down by the dressing table."

He did better than that. He sat her down gently in the little bench in front of the mirror. Jane pretended to glare at his smirking reflection.

He kissed her brow and whispered, "I shall return anon, Madam. Prepare yourself."

"Oh, go away!" she laughed, hitting him with her fan.

She could hear him go down the hall, no doubt to take off his ballroom finery. She must get an hour of two of sleep, and then she would have to get up and feed the babies, and then she would sleep herself out. Impatiently, she fidgeted while Pullen unpinned her hair. That done, she practically threw off her finery and the minute Pullen had unlaced her stays, she stumbled to the bed and crawled in between the cool smooth sheets, nearly weeping with relief. She was asleep before she could even pull the sheets up to her chin. Pullen stole away, exhausted herself, though she at least had napped through some of the evening.

Tavington returned to find Jane sprawled on the bed, dead to the world and insensible to his charms. He threw off banyan and shirt, and slid into bed beside her, first trying to gently urge her to one side, and then forced to shove her over bodily to make room for him. She did not wake, but mumbled "puddig pah," and flapped a wrist feebly.

He sighed and remembered that he had been up since three o'clock yesterday morning. Perhaps he might make another attempt after he just laid his head on the pillow for a moment….

He at least managed to draw the covers over them both before he was fast asleep.

-----

Paper rustled in the room. There was a muted whispering that fluted through the bedcurtains, unintelligible mutters in a high breathy voice. Jane could not believe it was morning, for she was so horribly tired. Was it Moll? She lay still, waiting for the summons that never came. Painfully, she forced her eyes open, and found it was still dark in the bed. It could not even be seven, then. Who was muttering in the bedchamber?

"Pullen," she croaked. "Is that you? What time is it?"

The muttering continued unheeding. There was a crackle from the fireplace as if something had caught fire. Blearily, she fumbled at the curtains, trying to find the opening.

_"That's not the one—no, not that one—I cannot find the registry page—that's not the one—where is it—useless! useless!—stuff and nonsense—where is it oh where is it—" _

A cold trickle of fear made her tingle to the roots of her hair. "William," she whispered. "did you hear that?"

Tavington did not stir. He was deeply asleep—not even snoring in his usual soft manner. Jane put out a hand to shake him, but drew back. _Am I dreaming? _She blinked. A faint smear of light penetrated the heavy bed curtains. _A candle? What is going on? _

_"Not that one either—silly rubbish—here's another—" _

Another crackle. There was a brief flare of light from the direction of the hearth. Jane could not think how to wake William without shouting loudly enough to startle the intruder. Carefully she pushed aside the curtain and peered out.

By the light of a single candle, she saw that her bedchamber was a shambles. Her clothes were pulled from wardrobe and drawers and scattered on the floor. Her jewelry dangled from trinket box and drawer pulls. Strands of pearls coiled on the floor like white snakes. A woman was going through her writing desk, examining each sheet of paper and discarding it impatiently into the glowing embers in the fireplace. Little gleams and sparks flew up as the papers caught fire. Her hats were all out of their boxes, cast aside and trodden upon. First shocked, then indignant. Jane tried to jump from the bed, but succeeded only in stumbling.

"Oh!" she gasped, clinging to the bedcurtains to keep from falling. The intruder looked up, staring at her suspiciously.

"Miss Grey," Lady Cecily demanded, _"what have you done with my box?" _

* * *

**Note:** Thanks to my reviewers/readers. I rely on your support! To those of you who noticed Little Tom's odd initials: it happened by accident, but I have chuckled over it since. And no, he's not evil!

**Next chapter: Love Letters and Italian Lessons **


	57. Love Letters and Italian Lessons

**Chapter 57: Love Letters and Italian Lessons**

"Lady Cecily!" Jane cried. "What are you doing here? You should not be out of bed at this time of night!" Too bewildered and frightened at the sight of her mother-in-law's ghostly appearance, she was unable to say anything more intelligent.

Her mother-in-law looked dreadful. Without her cosmetics, without her wig, clad in only a thin silk shift, her long gray hair hanging down her back, she looked ready to be laid out in her shroud. There were sores on her cheek and to the side of her nose: the pox devouring her body as it had cost her her wits. She stared, her faded blue irises entirely ringed with white, and put out a claw-like hand. "My box," she whimpered.

"I don't have your box, Lady Cecily," Jane answered, trying to soothe her. "Have you looked in your room? Have you asked Fabienne to look?"

She ought to put her arm around the confused woman, but she could not bear to. What to do? William was completely naked in bed. Jane would have to find his shirt before he could decently emerge. _Wait! Caroline--!_ Caroline was directly across the hall. "I shall call your daughter, ma'am. We'll help you get back to bed. I believe you are dreaming."

"Where is it?" Lady Cecily thrust Jane's personal papers from the desk dissatisfied. They fluttered randomly to the floor. Jane winced. There were her letters from her family, from friends, from Ralph—

Without wasting another moment, Jane pushed the curtain aside and said calmly but loudly. "William. Wake up. Your mother is here in the room and is raving. Wake up now. I don't know what you've done with your shirt. I can't go looking for it right now." In five steps she was across the dark hall and rapping on Caroline's door. "Caroline! Your mother is ill! Please get up."

There was a silence, and then a sudden exclamation. Behind her in her own bedchamber, she heard William curse feelingly. There was a rustle down the hall, but Jane was too busy to heed it.

In a moment, Caroline had the door open, and was blinking at Jane. "Mamma is ill?"

"Yes, come with me."

William was wrapped in a sheet, retrieving his clothes. He looked at Jane, clearly angry and horrified.

"Where the devil is that nurse?"

Caroline dashed to her mother's side, and took hold of her hands.

"Mamma! You should not be out of bed!"

Lady Cecily stared at her. "Who are you?" she mumbled.

"I am Caroline, Mamma. Your daughter. It is very late, and you must come with me to your own bedchamber."

"Nonsense," Lady Cecily muttered, and then complained, "Who is this drab? Where is Paulette?"

Jane took Lady Cecily by the other arm, and said, in a flat, grim voice, "Ma'am, it is the middle of the night. Come, I shall help you back to bed."

With her arms held by daughter and daughter-in-law, there was little Lady Cecily could do to resist them. She continued to object to her treatment. "Miss Grey, unhand me! You have my box! Don't try to deny it!"

"It was put away for safekeeping, ma'am," Jane snapped, saying the first thing that came to her. "It is too important to keep here in the house."

Curiously, that silenced the older woman. They walked down the hall slowly. Lady Cecily's burst of manic strength was fading, and she needed help to totter back to her own chamber. Penelope opened her door, saw what was going on, and hurried after them.

"Is she all right?"

"No, she turned my room upside down, looking for that box she keeps going on about," Jane said, too tired to be tactful in the invalid's presence. "I think we must have a word with this Mrs. Venable."

William caught up with them, his banyan decently buttoned. He saw that the women were managing, and strode ahead to Lady Cecily's room.

"Mrs. Venable!" he called out, full of righteous wrath.

Lady Cecily had left the door open behind her. The nurse appeared to have fallen asleep in a chair. By the light of the candle by her, they saw her start and look about in confusion, breathing heavily.

"Oh, sir!" she wailed, "what has happened?"

Tavington was very angry—angry at his mother for being so ill, angry at the nurse for letting his mother wander about, angry at himself for being undressed and unable to immediately help Jane. Mixed with it was shame and embarrassment. He had meant for Jane's life here to be perfect, and the very night of their wonderful ball, here was Mamma spoiling everything.

"What has happened," he snarled, "is that you have failed to look after my mother. Are you drunk, woman? She walked right past you, out of her boudoir, down the hall, and she started raving in Mrs. Tavington's own bedchamber. Get up and see to her. Give her laudanum if you must, but get her to bed and calm her down. If she falls ill because of your carelessness, you'll find yourself before the magistrate. Move, you useless trull!"

"William!" Caroline murmured a reproach at him for his language.

"Oh, dear!" Penelope whispered.

Tavington bit back further remarks. In the bedchamber, Fabienne was asleep on the daybed. Penelope called to her, shaking her. The smell of laudanum was heavy in the room.

_"Ah, ciel!"_ Fabienne cried hoarsely. She struggled to sit up. It was clear she could not be of much help. Tavington scowled at her, wondering if she were drunk, too. With a great effort, the maid stumbled to her mistress.

The nurse bustled forward and Lady Cecily was put to bed in short order. Penelope tutted at her mother's cold feet, and rubbed them furiously. Caroline helped the nurse prepare the laudanum drops.

The maid seemed bewildered. _"Je me sens si malade ! Je suis si fatiguée !"_

"Enough of this," Tavington said in Jane's ear. "Let's go back to bed. You look exhausted."

"So do you."

She was glad of his arm about her, as they left the others to care for his mother. The hall was very dark, but when they entered Jane's room, they saw the sky beginning to lighten.

"What time is it?" Jane groaned.

"After six."

She found her dressing gown and slipped it on. "There's no use in going back to bed yet; Moll will be down in a minute or two with the babies. You should rest, though. I'll see what I can do here." She began picking up the crumpled papers, smoothing them slowly, and beginning to pile them on the writing table. There was a faded pink ribbon, torn and cast aside. Jane picked it up and bit her lip. Gently, she laid it on the table, her finger running over the frayed silk.

"Yes," Tavington replied with weary sarcasm, "Naturally, I shall leave you to do it alone. What are all these papers, anyway?" He picked up some of the loose sheets nearest him, and glanced at one. "God! I hope these aren't my letters to you! We'll need them for the book!"

"No, no!" Jane reassured him absently, "Those are all in the study. I knew we'd want them. These are old family letters I have kept. They are important to no one but me."

She knelt by the fire and used the tongs to extract some half-burned paper. Tavington caught the dejection in her voice, and knelt by her, taking the tongs from her, and teasing the scrap deftly from the embers.

"Here. Be careful of the sparks."

Jane smoothed the discarded fine paper, its expensive ink still black and bold, the writing clear and beautiful.

_—all the possibilities, my darling Jane. While the lowland property is good, you and I  
---and then build afresh. Your plan is delightful, and I cannot wait to put it before  
--------soon, very soon. How alike our minds are! My dearest, have you _

It was a letter from Ralph, one of his longest. The three sheets were all partially burned. Half of his words were lost forever. Tears stung her eyes, but Tavington put another construction on the sniffle he heard.

"Jane, I hope you will not catch cold! This has been horrible for you. I pray you, go to bed and get warm. I will gather all the papers, and you can go through them at your leisure."

She did not want to, but the destruction of her precious letters upset her so, and she felt so very cold, that she could not face any more of it at the moment. She wiped her eyes, and got back into bed, feeling muzzy and overwhelmed.

"Save every scrap! Please, William! Don't throw anything away until I have a chance to look at it!"

"Yes, of course. Lie quietly and try to get warm."

She subsided, and curled up around the bolster, feeling sick with fatigue. Tavington cast a concerned glance her way, and applied himself to the chaos in the room. The maid could clean it up, he supposed, but perhaps Jane did not want a servant handling her private papers. The girl would no doubt throw the scraps of paper away, ignorant of their importance to Jane. He stepped on something hard.

"Damn!"

It was a pearl necklace. He picked up the scattered jewelry and deposited it into an open trinket box on the dressing table. The clothing and hats were the maid's province. Tavington searched for lost papers, looking under a clothes press, around the bed, and in the far corners of the chimneypiece. Jane would be upset if she saw anything forgotten, so he picked up everything. There was a torn corner of a letter by the spinet. Tavington glanced at it and saw something that gave him pause.

_wherever you go, my dearest love_

It was a portion of a love letter. Who could have written love letters to Jane? Feeling ill-used and very curious, he began reading the bits he found. On one fragment, he found a date.

_July 14, 1774  
King's College, Oxford_

_My darling Jane—_

_Beloved, I am coming home to you_

He glanced again at the bed. Jane was sniffling again. Perhaps she was weeping. Who was this fellow, making love to his wife?

It took a few minutes, sifting his memory for anything he could remember. Quite suddenly, he remembered a night in bed with Selina—something he had not thought about in over a year. A naked, giggling Selina, sharing a bit of malicious gossip--

_"They were going to married as soon as he returned. Jane has stacks of letters he sent her, all tied with little pink ribbons as faded as she is! The dullest things in the world. I had a look at them one day, when Jane was out. … And his ship sank and everyone was lost, and his body was never found, and Jane was heartbroken." She tossed her head, and repeated, "And she'll never get another man."_

_Oh. That cousin of hers. I daresay she was fond of him. Growing up together—a decent enough fellow, probably. Selina thought him very plain, too. What was his name?_

Stealing another guilty look at Jane, he glanced over the bits of paper, looking for a signature.

_Ralph_

_Ralph who? Selina said the name, but I cannot remember it. Some family name, certainly. Not Pinckney—no. Laurens, like her other cousin? Middleton? Perhaps. Does it matter? So Jane had an innocent romance as a young girl. So another man wished to marry her. So? It's not as if I haven't--_

It did bother him a little. The imponderables of fate were before him. Had this Ralph not drowned in 1774, Tavington might never have met Jane in 1780. Obviously he would not have married her. Such another opportunity would have been unlikely to come his way. _No. It is quite certain that I would have died after Cowpens, alone and wretched. A strange sort of balance. One dies that the other may live. I owe this Ralph my life, in a mysterious sort of way._

He read the bits he could find. The fellow had written very affectionately to Jane. Things like that were important to a woman. It would be stupid to be jealous of a man who had been food for fish years before Tavington had even met Jane. Instead, he felt rather proud of himself, being considerate enough to retrieve these little billet-doux for his wife. It was a nice gesture on his part. Jane had been so unhappy before they were married. Probably these poor remains were all she had had to comfort her. Of course their loss hurt her. And to lose them in such a stupid, ugly way! Very conscious of his husbandly virtue, Tavington set to work with great energy, carefully retrieving anything with writing on it. One of the letters, torn in half, was from Mary Laurens. Tavington snorted, thinking of that irritating woman, and then recalling that the woman had been kind to Jane, and also to Ash and his own little Tom.

Within ten minutes, the papers were largely collected and arranged in the writing desk, and Moll was at the door, helped by a very young maid he thought was called Jenny. Jane roused herself and was very glad to see the babies.

"Heavens above!" cried Moll, looking about the room. "What happened here?"

"You—" Tavington commanded the young maid, "Fetch Miss Pullen. Do not say anything about the condition of this room, or you will regret it."

"She should go fetch Mrs. Tavington her tea, afterwards, " Moll suggested. "Looks like you could use a nice hot drink, ma'am."

Tavington approved. "A good idea, Mrs. Royston. Yes, girl, tell Miss Pullen she is wanted, and then go to the kitchen and bring back tea for Mrs. Tavington and myself. Some toast and marmalade, too, I think. Go."

Scared of the tall Colonel, the little girl turned and ran from the room.

Briefly, Tavington told Moll of his mother's wanderings. "She quite startled us both. That nurse whom Mrs. Watkins recommended slept through it all. If it were not impossible to replace her on short notice, I would have sacked her on the spot. Useless woman! I shall have something to say to Mrs. Watkins when she returns."

Moll was more calm about it all. "These things happen. With all the doings last night, I reckon she weren't the only person all wore out. Didn't know the lady was still so spry, I guess. Lookee here, ma'am," she said to Jane, more interested in little boys than old and crazy earl's daughters. "See Little Will's eyes? They've been that baby blue all along, and I figgered they'd turn like the Colonel's, but yesterday I thought I spied a bit of green. You look there. He's going to have hazel eyes like yours, or maybe they'll be green."

"Oh!" Jane looked. "His eyes _are_ changing. How interesting. Green would be pretty. I was told that my mother's eyes were green." She took a look at the other baby, suckling industriously. "Thomas' eyes are already blue—like his mother," she added with a blush. "But we shall have to see. I always thought my eyes were dull, but hazel can be nice. If they were green, though—" she laughed, with a lift of a brow to her husband. "Perhaps I saw too many Green Dragoon uniforms when I was carrying him, and it affected his poor little eyes!"

Tavington laughed himself, and came around to peer into his son's eyes. Perhaps Moll was right. They were certainly very nice eyes.

-----

The plan was to rest all through Sunday, prepare for their journey Monday, and on Tuesday return to Wargrave for a few days. They would see Moll married, see if Rose was sufficiently recovered from her inoculation to return with them, and probably come back to London at the end of the week. John would go with them, certainly, partly to discover how Somerville's nephew was doing, partly to see the Bordons again, and partly to enjoy the jolly occasion of Moll's wedding.

Mrs. Venable was repentant, and punctilious in her care for her charge. Doctor Elliott would come on Monday to examine Lady Cecily. The family was concerned that the exertions of early Sunday morning might have significantly weakened her.

"She is very quiet now, at least, " Penelope sighed over their Sunday dinner.

They were all very tired as they gathered together in the dining room, now restored to normal condition by the servants. John was in the best spirits, for he had slept through the entire commotion and had only heard about his mother's intrusion into Jane's bedchamber when he got up around two o'clock that afternoon.

"Ha! I would have liked to have seen your faces, with her looming over you in the dark! Like something from a novel!"

"It was very startling indeed," Jane said, less disturbed about it after more sleep. "I am sure my face was a study. I did not see William's at that moment, unfortunately, so I cannot describe it."

A sleepy sort of day, Jane agreed with Tavington. Neither the harpsichord nor the harp much appealed to her that day. She still felt very low, mourning her lost letters. Some were only scraps. Some were completely gone, like Mary Laurens' emotional missive of December. That was a terrible shame, for someday the boys might want to know something of how they came to England.

The loss of Ralph's letters hurt the worst, however silly others might think her. Only a few bits remained. Lady Cecily had consigned them to the fire with ruthless energy. Jane felt a large part of her past had vanished forever. It was not just that she was among people who had not known her all her life. Now even her own memories, her own grip on her past was weakened. The fragments that were left, she had put back in the little cedar box, in what order she could.

Tomorrow she would see Letty, thank Heavens. Even as altered as Letty was, she was still the one human being who had lived with Jane all her life in the closest intimacy. Really, when she considered it rationally, Letty must feel the break with their life even more keenly than Jane. There was nothing to tie her to it at all.

She listened, resting on the drawing room sofa, while Tavington read a portion of _Humphry Clinker_. It was a very amusing book, and made her long to take a tour of the island, herself. Not likely with three tiny boys, she sighed to herself. Already she was dreading the hours to be spent in the coach on Tuesday—and then again next Saturday. She tried not to think of it, listening instead to William's lovely voice.  
He reached the end of one of the letters from Winifred, read in Tavington's rendition of a Welsh accent, which had made them all laugh.

"That's enough," he said, reaching for his glass of Madeira. "I propose an early night."

"A good idea," John agreed. "We shall all be busy tomorrow."

"Yes." Jane smiled, thinking of all of her plans. "I shall have such a day! First, I must retrieve Moll's certificate of the banns from the rector of St. Michael's, and then I go to Letty for our Italian lesson. I am so looking forward to it. Probably I shall take tea with her, but I shall certainly be home by five."

"I should hope so," Tavington said, amazed at her energy. "Lucy and Protheroe will come for dinner tomorrow, you know. With all that going on, you mustn't exhaust yourself for the journey the following day!"

"Caro and I shall visit the shops and buy wedding presents for Mrs. Royston," Penelope declared. "Since you bought her those very lovely dishes, Mrs. Tavington, I had thought to give her a pair of pewter candlesticks. What say you, Caro?"

"Very nice. I shall find her something useless and ornamental—perhaps some pretty combs to dress her hair. Even a practical woman like Mrs. Royston needs something frivolous."

-----

Jane felt much refreshed by the next morning. She left in the early afternoon, completed her errand at the church with dispatch, and drove on to Fanshawe House, longing to see Letty and talk over the ball with her. Bellini was to arrive at half-past one. That should give them a few minutes for confidences. And she would see the Painted Parlor at last!

Even the judgmental air of the formidably handsome butler who guarded the door of Fanshawe House from the unworthy could not distress her. She had grown to womanhood in a slave-holding society, and did not care what servants unknown to her might think of her. Besides, she hardly looked carefully enough at him to see how very handsome he was. He allowed that she was indeed expected, and led her down the marble hall to a door which opened on a little paradise. Jane gaped at the fanciful splendor of the room.

Letty was practicing at a most gorgeous harpsichord. The inside of the raised lid was painted with the Judgement of Paris. Letty's dress was comparatively simple, but she still looked very lovely. On hearing Jane announced, she rose and quickly embraced her sister.

"I am so glad so see you! I wanted to talk about the ball! I had such a good time. Lord Fanshawe thought it was all very nicely done. Are you all worn out?"

Jane laughed at the rush of words. "I'm glad to see you, too, because I knew we'd have so much to say about the ball. I'm very relieved his lordship approved. And I was quite worn out yesterday, but today I am myself! How do you feel? Was the ball too much for you?"

Letty took her to one of the outrageously gorgeous sofas, and they sat very closely, holding each other's hand, happy to be alone together. A quick dialogue followed: Letty's admiration of the music she had heard, and the nice people she had met, and how pretty the house had looked. Jane had looked so nice, too. Several people had said so to Letty, and she was eager to repeat all the kind things she had heard to her sister's credit. Jane praised Letty's appearance, and said how happy she was to see more of Letty's friend, Lady Carteret.

"But Miss James did not attend. I presume that Lord Fanshawe does not consider her to be out, then."

Letty spoke quietly, not wanting to be overhead. "If she hadn't offended him, I think he would have permitted it. He thinks small family gatherings are all right. Actually, once he was at your ball, he decided it was just as well that she was not there. It was a greater affair than he had expected, but he liked it the better for that. If Harmonia behaves herself, he will present her at Court in March, when she is seventeen. If she behaves herself extremely well, he will even give a ball to mark the occasion. I hope that's enough to make her mind her manners!"

Jane laughed again, enjoying the sound of Letty speaking in a more familiar style. All the same, her accent had definitely changed. Jane wondered if she should work at imitating English speech herself. _Maybe Lucy or Caro would help me. I shall feel like such a fool, aping the way they talk! But maybe it would be a good idea. The English don't seem to admire provincial accents._ Hers, she admitted to herself rather despondently, sounded _very_ provincial to her own ears, when contrasted with the speech of the ladies at the ball.

She made a point of admiring the room, getting up to try the harpsichord and then the harp. "I must practice more!" she told Letty. "I really think I could master it within a year, if I could practice regularly."

"It is so hard to find the time," Letty agreed. "My plan is not working very well yet. I have so many fittings, and have to see all sorts of people, and then I have to sit and visit with Harmonia. I am so glad we have this time today. Lord Fanshawe decided she needed a little more polish, so on Mondays she must practice her music in her own room and complete a drawing. It is very kindly done of Lord Fanshawe. If she joined us here, it would all be spoiled."

"—And you would certainly not succeed in learning Italian, which his lordship wishes you to do!"

Jane walked about the beautiful room a little more, admiring the little recessed dome in the ceiling, and then asking about the pretty girl over the mantel. "Is that a Muse? Which one?"

"Oh, honey, that is Lord Fanshawe's daughter. The one who died. Camilla was her name. She was very pretty, and very good and clever, he tells me. She is meant to represent a muse—yes—the History one—I forget the name—"

"Clio," Jane supplied.

"Yes, that's the one. See her book. I wish she hadn't died. She would have been just about our age, though of course she would probably be married—"

"A great pity indeed, poor thing. I don't think Lord Fanshawe is finding Miss James a satisfactory substitute."

"No. She is so foolish. If I had a father who would take care of me as he does her, I would do anything to please him."

Jane squeezed Letty's hand. Obviously, nothing she had ever done or ever could have done would possibly be enough to win the acknowledgement of Ashbury Rutledge Senior. Nothing Jane had every done had been to his satisfaction, either. It was very sad. Jane shrugged. "At least Lord Fanshawe seems willing to be pleased if one obeys and does one's best. That is certainly an improvement over Papa!"

"Oh, yes! He is very kind to me—and so generous! I told him that I wished to give Moll a present, and he quite understood, though he spoke of it as rewarding a faithful servant. Moll has never been my servant exactly, but I don't think there's any point in trying to make him see that. I hope you don't think this is rude or indelicate, but since you told me she was expecting, I—got her a complete set of baby linen. Come and see. It's very lovely. Perhaps it's wrong to speak of such things, but I'm sure it will help her.'

Jane did not want to criticize, even though it _was_ improper. Moll, she knew, would not see it that way. A large box was set neatly in a corner. Jane opened it, at Letty's nod, and then exclaimed in admiration.

"Oh, my, Letty! This is splendid!" It was excellent linen, very well made, but with minimal embroidery. It was not ridiculously fine for the nursemaid wife of a butler, but it was still much, much better than anything Moll could have afforded herself. Caps and smocks for different sizes; blankets and coverlets, and little booties, and any number of baby napkins and a very fine christening gown.

"So lovely—" Jane said, still caught up in the joy of thinking of new babies.

"I have been putting together things for—" Letty's lovely face glowed "—for my own little one. It is so charming. There is a wonderful nursery on the third floor, which hardly needs a thing to make it perfect. It has been so nice for me, that I thought Moll would like having her baby linen all settled, too."

"It was very kindly thought of you. I can take it in the carriage when Scoggins arrives. I am sure it will be her favorite present."

The cooing over baby things came to abrupt halt as the door opened, and Bellini was announced. Instantly, the whole atmosphere changed, given a very masculine charge of vigor as Bellini bowed, and then strode over to greet them and kiss their hands.

"Such lovely ladies! It is with such joy that I come to teach you my native tongue. You are well—yes? Ready to learn?"

"Indeed we are," Jane assured him.

"I'll try very hard," Letty said more doubtfully. "I've never tried to learn a foreign language before—not the way my sister has. I'll probably be very stupid at it."

"Not at all," Bellini told her. "you have a good mind and good ear, my lady. If you can learn music, you can learn Italian, the most musical of all languages. I have brought a song to teach you. Mrs. Tavington will play, but she will learn the words too. Sometimes, learning a song is a good way to start with a foreign tongue."

They moved to the harpsichord, and Bellini produced his copies. Letty, and then Jane, listened to Bellini sing the song, and then he began teaching them to speak the words, first slowly, and then in the meter of the aria.

_"Caro mio ben,  
Credimi almen,  
Senza di te  
Languisce il core."_

Then he translated the lyrics for them: first freely, and then word by word, to make them understand what each syllable meant. He had Letty sing the aria, while Jane played. Finally, and most frightfully, he asked Jane to sing along.

"I have no voice—none at all," she protested.

"It is only I—a mere teacher of singing," Bellini laughed. "It is like seeing_i__ldottore_—you have nothing to be ashamed of before me!"

It was still rather horrible. Bellini was very kind, but Jane knew that all she could do was carry the bones of a tune without grace or beauty. Still, it was enough. Bellini approved her pronunciation. Both she and Letty struggled with the rolled "r." They grew quite silly over it and they practiced it in all sorts of ways.

Bellini taught them some basic words: "si" and "no' and "grazie." They were drilled in all the simple terms of courtesy, and then Bellini encouraged Letty to order tea somewhat early.

"We shall practice while we drink tea together, shall we not?" He looked at them expectantly.

_"Si, Signore,"_ Jane ventured.

_"Si, Signore,"_ Letty echoed.

_"Molto bene."_ He smiled.

He had written out the words they had learned that day: a neat list, with a copy for Lady Fanshawe and a copy for Mrs. Tavington. Both promised they would study them faithfully. Just a little after four, the door opened again, and Lord Fanshawe appeared, pleased to see them. Bellini told them of their diligence, and while Fanshawe sipped his tea, Letty and Jane performed _Caro Mio Ben _to his applause.

"Most satisfactory," he remarked. "You have done very well. Perhaps it is always better to have a fellow student. One gains more for the exchange of ideas. I hope to show Lady Fanshawe the beauties of Italy when peace is achieved. You, too, Mrs. Tavington, would benefit from wider travel. It has always been one of my greatest pleasures."

Jane agreed civilly, though she could not imagine when such traveling would be possible. The prospect of a carriage ride into Essex with three little boys was daunting enough. How to manage to cross the Channel, transverse the whole of France, and navigate the way to Italy was inconceivable. If she were another sort of woman, she supposed, she could leave the children behind and travel where her whims took her, but it would be rather hard on Ash, Thomas, and William Francis.

It was time to go home. She embraced Letty once more, with a promise that she would be back for their next lesson. The gentlemen bade her farewell, and Jane was happy to see Scoggins and her coach waiting in front of Fanshawe House very punctually at the time appointed. A footman carried out the box of baby linen, and settled it securely on the carriage floor. Jane could hardly keep from opening it again as they traveled back to Mortimer Square. She smiled to herself, imagining Moll's surprise and delight.

Tea was about to be served as she arrived. To her great pleasure, Lucy was there, and the four ladies gathered together to discuss their several adventures of the afternoon.

"Doctor Elliott came to examine Mamma," Caro reminded Jane. "It was rather horrible. He was very grave when he heard about her conduct early Sunday morning. He feels that—it will not be long now."

Seeing that this saddened her companions, even though Jane felt very little about it herself, she tried to be consoling. "Indeed I am sorry, my dear. I know it must be very difficult for all of you. At least she does not seem to be suffering physically."

"No, she does not," Lucy sturdily agreed. "Many have known very great pain, and we must be grateful that Mamma's end will be peaceful. We must be very brave ourselves, and be ready to deal with the inevitable."

Penelope sighed. "I suppose so. I just seems so –heartless—to make plans contingent on her passing—or even to think of ordering mourning."

Jane shifted uncomfortably, remembering how sternly Fate had dealt with her when she had presumed to buy mourning for her mother-in-law. Perhaps it was best to say nothing of it.

* * *

_Je me sens si malade ! Je suis si fatiguée !--I feel so sick! I'm so tired!  
_

**Next chapter: A Wedding at Wargrave Church **


	58. A Wedding at Wargrave Hall

**Chapter 58: A Wedding at Wargrave Church**

Jane descended from the coach, worn out in body and spirit. Of her companions, only Pullen was in similar straits: everyone else was loudly delighted to be at Wargrave again. Or rather, Jane _supposed_ that William Francis and Thomas were delighted. They were noisy enough. Rambler grinned at everyone, and barked joyfully when Ash tried to wrestle with him, upsetting bandboxes and workbaskets alike. Ash had driven her nearly mad during the trip, asking every quarter hour, "Are we there yet?"

Moll had been nearly as bad, beaming like sunshine, looking eagerly out the window at every landmark that took them closer to Wargrave. The babies had needed changing at exactly the same time, and just as Jane finished suckling them. It was not exactly little Tom's fault, but Jane was not pleased that there was a yellowish-brown smear on her black silk petticoat. Pullen was not pleased at the prospect of trying to clean it. _Such are the joys of motherhood, I suppose._

The road was frozen hard in places, and the carriage jolted violently where frost had heaved up ridges in the rutted lane. Jane began to wonder if she would be sick, and twice was on the point of stopping the carriage. When they reached the turn to Wargrave Cross, the carriage nearly broke an axle. Ash began screaming about needing to see Mama Borden and Robin and Susan _right away_. By the time Scoggins was reining in the team in front of the house, Jane was dizzy and nauseous, and not in a mood to be pleased with anything, and she was determined to say something to John about that part of the road at dinner.

Tavington was a little concerned at how pale and grim she looked. He hooked Rambler by his collar, thinking that she could do with one less in the party going upstairs. Rambler was delighted to be back home. He had behaved fairly well in London, but clearly did not think walks in the Square any substitute for proper adventures in the woods of Wargrave. When they left, Moll would surely see that he did not run off again. Rambler was not a city dog.

The servants turned out to meet them. Tom Young, grand in his butler's livery, bowed low, but his eyes and smile were for Moll. She was no longer grinning, and tears of happiness shone in her eyes. Jane hoped that while the children had their afternoon naps Moll could steal away for a little time with her betrothed. The wedding would be tomorrow, and Jane thought it would be a nice gesture to have a breakfast in the Great Hall, with a head table for the gentry, tables for the tenants and servants, and the cake that she had written to Mrs. Jeffreys about. It would have been easier to arrange in the summer—a celebration in the garden would have been lovely—but it was January, and any celebrations must be indoors by a roaring fire.

She was reassured that all the arrangements had been made and that tomorrow would be a happy day for all. With Mrs. Carter was her middle-aged niece Mrs. Smith, the one that would taking charge as housekeeper. She greeted Jane with special respect. Tavington was glad that Jane roused herself to the point of speaking sensibly and kindly to her, and ascertaining that there could be a collation laid out in the dining room for hungry travelers.

Turning to Tavington, Jane said, "I have so much to do. I hope you and Sir John will excuse me while I get the children settled." The nursery dinner was ready. Jane gave thanks for that. Reluctantly, Jane had decided that it would be for the best to move all the children upstairs to the regular nursery. She would have to go up there to suckle the babies, but it was just too inconvenient to keep Ash upstairs alone, and the move would have to be made eventually. Now was as good a time as any. She entered the nursery, smiling a little in spite of herself. It was such an attractive room. Ash liked it, obviously. He greeted Rose with ecstasy, and she seemed just as happy to see them.

"Are you feeling quite well?" Jane asked her.

"Much better now, ma'am. I was dreadful sick for a few days, but the spots are fading, and I had none on my face at all!"

"I am very happy to hear it. Did everyone else recover from the inoculations?"

"Polly is still abed, and Young Joe's eyes troubled him something fierce, but he's himself now."

"Good. Please feed the little ones. I am going to lie down in my bedchamber."

She left the room, leaving behind the chatter and happy noise of Moll and Rose and nursery dinnertime. Her own room had been aired and prepared, and Jane remembered how much she liked it, and the bright window overlooking a frosty lawn, so different from the view at Mortimer Square. Pullen had already taken possession of her little side room and rustled out to help Jane remove enough of her clothing to make a nap comfortable. Pullen made to draw the curtains, but Jane stopped her.

"Don't, Pullen. I don't need it to be dark. I may not sleep at all. I just want to lie down and rest. Perhaps you should as well."

"Thank you, ma'am. My head is splitting with the noise of three children and a dog."

When the last door was shut, a soothing silence pervaded the room. Only the light crackle of the fire thoughtfully lit for her benefit broke the quiet. Jane shut her eyes briefly, listening to the lack of noise. She detected the faint ticking of her little watch on the dressing table, the creaking of a board in the hall under a soft footstep, the faint whistle of the chilly wind past the mullioned window.

Good sounds. However inconvenient the walk up to the nursery, this blessed peace was a fair exchange. A maid knocked softly, and came in to tell her the gentlemen were having their cold meat in the dining room. Jane thanked her, and told her to say they must excuse her, as she did not feel like eating.

The door closed again, and Jane lay quietly, looking up at the ceiling, hoping her stomach would soon settle down. _Am I with child? _She did not think so. She had none of the other symptoms. While more children would be welcome—eventually—she had too much to do with three already in her nursery to wish to add to their number. No. This was simply the stress and noise of an unpleasant four hours in the carriage with three small children. While the distance between London and Wargrave was comparatively short, perhaps she had been unrealistic in her ideas of how often they could make the journey. Perhaps fewer and longer visits would be desirable. She shut her eyes and did not realize that she had fallen asleep until Pullen roused her at four o'clock.

Very sleepy and stupid, she struggled to clear her head. She must look into the wedding preparations. She must call for afternoon tea. She must have a look at the children soon. All her responsibilities weighed heavily upon her. She dressed, and stumbled downstairs to find tea waiting, and the Bordons with it.

"Ah! There she is!" John said, seeing her in the doorway. Everyone turned to acknowledge her.

Harriet came to her, hand out in welcome. "I received a letter from Deborah Porter," Harriet told her. "She has arrived at the school. There is a letter for you, too, so I will let you read the news for yourself." Jane saw that there was indeed a letter for her on a side table. "Go ahead," Harriet urged. "It will take but a moment." Jane broke the seal, and read the short note. The girl's hand was enormously round and easy to read.

_January the twenty-third _

_Mrs Cooper's Academy for Young Ladies _

_Little Brockton_

_Dear Mrs Tavington, _

_I have arrived Safe at Mrs Cooper's Academy. It is a fine big house of stone and I have a bed in a room with three other girls. Miss Gilpin had the Cobbler take my mesure for Shoes. They are the best Shoes I have ever had. As soon as they were finished we got in the Coach and went to the School. Mrs Cooper calls it an Academy. Miss Gilpin says that is another Word for School. It is a fine word. It is a great Thing to be a Pupil at an Academy. I am aware of my good Fortune. _

_Miss Gilpin is a very good woman. Miss Fanny and Miss Belinda are very pretty agreeable girls. They helped me with my hair and showed me how to make book marks. The Reverend Mr Gilpin gave me a Bible that he wrote in for me and a Prayer Book. They said they knew I would be a good dutyful girl. I will try, anyways. The Vickarage is handsome and everyone was good to me. I try not to repine, for I know I am being given a good Oportunity to Improve myself. I shall not prove Unworthy of your Trust, I hope. _

_Thank you for my Cloathes. The Cloak is very warm. Even tho my gown is of Mourning Stuff, it is very comfortable. My Cloathes are good and no one here has better, tho some more colorful, of course. The Huswife Mrs Roiston gave me is useful. I could lend another Girl a Needle. Having more than one Needle made me feel Rich. _

_Mrs Cooper is so clever. But she is kind too. She says I must work on my Spelling and Grammar. I have never written letters before, so I will practice with you and I trust I shall Improve with Time. Spelling and Grammar are important branches of Study. She looked at my Sewing and praised my Buttonholes. My Buttonholes are the best for my age here. I thought you would like to know that. Tomorrow I shall learn to make French Knots. The instrument is in the parlor. After I settle in more Mrs Cooper will have Miss Dawkins give me lessons. _

_Thank you again for your Generousity to me. Thank all the People who gave me fine things. I found some Pensils for Drawing. I never Drew before but Lavinia who sleeps in the same room knows how to draw a Horse and she showed me. Everyone thinks my Chatlayn is Elegant. I like my little box. When I have Keep Sakes, I shall keep them there. _

_Your obedient Sarvant and grateful Freind, _

_Deborah Porter _

Jane laughed ruefully. "The poor little thing! She's going to school not a moment too soon!"

Harriet smiled, but was less amused than Jane. "She's clever enough, but oh, so neglected! I understand that her mother was terribly busy with the little ones, but it is a shame she had so little time to teach Deborah. I believe the child will apply herself, and will improve greatly. It's an awful reminder of how bad it is to favor one child over another."

"I notice that you and your husband scrupulously spend time with both of your children. I see no sign that Susan is ignored in favor of Robin—though such things are common enough—nor that you ignore him to spoil her."

"How glad I am to hear it. One does one's best, but children are all so different, and each has different needs. Even treating them perfectly equally might not be for the best."

"You are at least conscious of these situations. Many would not care. My own father never cared tuppence for me—and even less than that after the birth of my brother."

The talk changed to the wedding tomorrow, and the breakfast to be given the servants. It was unconventional, to a degree, but Harriet agreed that Moll's position was unique, and that Jane would be happy in the long run that she had treated her so generously.

"Everyone likes a party."

Sir John was saying exactly the same thing to Bordon at that moment. The two groups overheard one another, and there was general laughter.

Tavington took the interruption to make his way to Jane's side. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Yes. I only needed a little rest—and now some tea with a piece of bread and butter. How good the bread is here!"

The Bordons left shortly after tea. Tavington disappeared into the library with John, and Jane went upstairs to the nursery. Her servants were gathered together talking over tomorrow's wedding with all those special hints and glances and little laughs that make such occasions even more exciting. Ash was playing with Rambler, and the babies were rolling and crawling on the nursery carpet. It was a scene of happy chaos.

Moll was telling the others of the handsome present of money Tom had received from Sir John.

"Ah, yes," considered Jane, with an air of mystery. "Wedding presents! What say you, Moll? Should we wait until tomorrow, or should you see them now?"

"Now!" cried Pullen. "I mean—I beg your pardon, ma'am. It's only that Moll may wish to—" she dropped her voice "---_wear _my gift."

"Shouldn't Young be here to receive them as well?"

Moll narrowed her eyes, and shook her head. "Don't think so. We had a good talk this afternoon and went over to the cottage. It's looking mighty fine. He's bringing his share and I'm bringing mine. I reckon my presents are things he'll like to see in our house."

"You could put them out on a table for the guests to see," Rose suggested. "Sometimes people do that."

"Don't want to seem to boast," said Moll. "I think the best thing is to have Young Joe cart my bits of things over to the cottage in the morning. He can pile it all up on the kitchen table, and I'll show it Tom when we're alone. That's what I'd like best."

"Then that is what we shall do," Jane agreed, happy to have it resolved. "Rose, call Ham Taylor to help you and bring up that long box in my bedchamber—the wooden one under the window. I also need the green bandbox, and the crate underneath."

"I'll help her, ma'am," Pullen offered, with smothered excitement. "I need to fetch something from my room!"

Moll and Jane were left, smiling and speculating on the nature of Pullen's gift.

"I shall miss having you in the house, Moll. You have no idea how much your presence has helped me since I came to England."

Moll shrugged. "I reckon we helped each other, Mrs. Tavington. I'd have been in a sorry state if I were still in South Carolina. With the army fixing to pull out and the rebels winning, I guess I'd have had a hard row to hoe. I'll never forget Royston and my little Charlie, but Tom's a good man—"

"—and a handsome one," Jane teased.

"The looks don't hurt, and that's a fact," Moll agreed calmly. "Reckon the baby'll be better looking for 'em. Like I say, he's a good man. We've got ourselves a good home. I hope you'll find time to come by and see what all Tom's done. I reckon I've done pretty well for myself. Sometimes I can't figger why Ma ever left, but maybe she weren't so lucky in her friends."

Rose and Pullen bustled back into the room, panting with exertion. A footman was loaded down with boxes and bags. He was dismissed with Jane's thanks, and giggles from all the rest of the women, and Moll was led to the rocking chair, as the place of honor, to receive her gifts.

"What's happenin', Sissah Jane?" Ash wondered.

"We're going to give Moll some presents now, Ash," Jane told him, "because she's getting married tomorrow. Remember? I told you that she's going to live in that pretty cottage nearby, but she'll come and spend the days with us when we're here."

"Can I give a pwesent, too?"

"You can carry some of the presents over to Moll, Ash. That would be a big help. Can you carry this? It's very heavy."

"I'm a big boy!" Ash gathered up a bundle in both arms, and carried it over to Moll, eyes shining. "This is for you, Moll!"

Moll pushed the paper aside and found the honeycomb quilt they had made together, in cheerful brown and blue floral chintz. It was a big quilt that would fit the biggest bed. Moll thanked them all for their contributions, and then Pullen gave a small bundle to Ash to carry to her.

"Well! That is about the fanciest thing I ever saw. I'll wear it tomorrow, sure enough!"

Pullen had embroidered a handsome stomacher to dress up Moll's best green gown. It would pin over the front of the bodice, and was a light green silk with a pattern of pink English roses executed in satin stitch. The stems of the roses formed a True Love knot and small pink rosebuds formed the border.

"Thank you kindly, Miss Pullen! That's mighty fine work!"

"Very lovely," Jane agreed. "A wonderful gift. Oh, Moll, open mine next! Here, Ash, I'll have to help you, because it's heavy."

Moll exclaimed over the brightly colored bone china, her work-roughened hands caressing the teapot with tenderness and pride. For once she had very little to say. "Well—well." She wiped her nose.

Rose had made her a lace-trimmed handkerchief of enormous size, which Moll gratefully added to her wedding regalia.

Three packages remained, and were well received: the pewter candlesticks and a box of wax candles, the ivory combs, and the large flat box that was opened and exclaimed over. Jane might think it an improper gift, but Moll was unabashedly grateful.

"Saved me months of work. I can't thank our sweet Letty enough—beg pardon, our Lady Fanshawe. This is right fine. Look at this pudding cap! Well! I can have me a dozen little 'uns and dress 'em all. You thank Lady Fanshawe for me, ma'am. I never saw such stuff! Fit for a queen!"

Personally, Jane doubted that Her Majesty had ever been as excited about the beauty of baby linen as this good frontierswoman. Moll was tearing up, and Jane put a hand on her arm, wondering what kind of baby linen little Charlie Royston had made shift with. She herself could not imagine, not even after her time in the backcountry, how hard the lives of the poor farmers were—nor how precious were their few luxuries. Occasionally Jane realized what a privileged and luxurious life she led. This was certainly one of those times.

"You're very dear to all of us Moll. You've been our loyal friend. Of course we want to remember you on this wonderful occasion. I think your idea about taking it all over to the cottage in the morning is a good one. Young Joe will need a hand cart to carry all this, of course."

"And there's the stuff I put together, ma'am," Moll told her eagerly, wiping her eyes. "I put that gold Lord Colchester give me to good use. Let me show you!"

In their short time in London, Moll had not been idle. She had made shirts for Tom, and sheets for their bed and their baby's cradle. She had bought good linen and some woolen blankets. There were wooden bowls and heavy crocks. There were long spoons and a copper kettle. Ironsides Cottage would be well outfitted.

"Bought me some powder and ball, too! Sir John said I could shoot all I wanted, within reason. I asked him what that meant, and he said I can't shoot more than I can eat. No selling off to outsiders, and I reckon that's fair enough!"

"And you'll have Rambler to help you," Jane pointed out. "When we leave, I'm sure he'll stay with you."

Ash listened to this last, eyes bulging. At the end, he burst out bawling. "Nooooo! Don't go away! Noooo!"

He was reassured that Moll was not going away, and that he would visit her in her new cottage on Thursday afternoon. He sobbed, peering between his small fingers with mistrust and fear.

"Everybody goes away!"

"No, Ash!" Jane said, trying to hold the angry little boy on her lap. "Moll will always be here. Sometimes we will go to London, and sometimes we will be here. Moll will stay here all the time, and keep the nursery nice for you."

"No!" He slid from Jane's lap and stamped his foot. "Moll, you stay here!"

"Can't do that, my little man. I'm getting married tomorrow! You just settle down and have—"

"Nooooo!" he screamed. "Not married! _Nooooo!"_

"Ashbury Charles!" Jane scolded. "You stop your roaring this minute or I'll swat your bottom! I mean it!"

He did not stop screaming that minute or for some time, and Jane did not swat him. He was quite hysterical, and clung to Moll tearfully, howling as if his heart would break. Moll had Rose put the presents away and go down to the kitchen; and Moll held Ash on her lap until he was tired of his tantrum.

At the appropriate moment, Rose reappeared, bearing a covered bowl of rice pudding dotted with plump raisins and swimming in cream. Ash gave a great sniff, and hid his eyes at first, but gradually became fairly interested in the pudding. A little bowl was ladled out for him and he stumped over to the child-sized table, and was soon eating hungrily.

The babies had been frightened by his noise and kicking. Jane laid them in their little cots, side by side, stroking their faces and humming to them until the storm had passed. As always, the minute one child had something to eat, the others were hungry as well. Tom was tied into his high chair and fed some of the pudding, which he evidently thought satisfactory. Even Will had a spoonful or two, though Jane feared it might be too rich for him. Then, of course, the babies wanted some milk as well, and were duly nursed and cuddled.

"You can see, Moll," Jane declared, "how much we still need you!"

"Don't you worry, ma'am. I'll be here during the day. Once these little rascals are fast asleep, though, I'll be off to Ironsides Cottage!"

Jane came down a little later, still humming. Tavington came out of the bedchamber, glad to see her in a good mood.

"What was that appalling noise upstairs? Ash again?"

"Yes, unfortunately. He finally took in that Moll might not be about all the time and begged her not to marry. She dealt with it very well, of course. I suppose I can understand it: he's been passed from one hand to another, and is frightened that we're only temporary, too. He'll settle down in time. He loves Rose, and he'll be happy when she comes back with us. It's too bad that he's so little. If he were even a year older it might be possible to reason with him. I promised him that we would visit Moll in her new cottage on Thursday."

"If he were older, he'd be due a whipping for all of these fits of temper," Tavington growled. "I daresay his mother spoiled him."

Jane did not think Ash was spoiled, but refrained from telling William that he did not know what he was talking about, when they had been getting so well otherwise. Instead, she answered, "Well, _we _do not spoil him. It does not spoil a child to love him. He will get over his tantrums when he find he does not get his way, and when he is sure that we mean to keep him!"

-----

Of all the weddings he had attended in the past year or two, Tavington thought Moll's much the nicest. Infinitely nicer than his own, certainly. He tried never to remember that day. There was nothing he could recall of it that was much to his credit. As he had with Letty, he gave the bride away today; but he gave Moll Royston's hand to stalwart Tom Young with a great deal more satisfaction than he had Letty's to that libertine Fanshawe.

Bordon read the service impressively, with all the dignity and good feeling that the sacrament of marriage called for. There was not a long face to be seen, nor a cynical smirk, nor a worried brow. A light snowfall dusted the hats and hoods of the congregation as they made their way to Wargrave Church. There was considerable talk about the handsome presents that the bridal couple had received. Apparently Young Joe Carter had transported Moll's belongings to the cottage early in the morning, and her "trousseau"-- if one could call her possessions that, was the admiration of the village.

His ladies had treated her generously. John had given Tom a good sum of money, and Tavington had felt it incumbent on him to show his gratitude for the faithful service of both of them. A watch for Tom Young and a beautifully chased powder flask for Moll were his contribution. He felt particularly happy that he would remain in contact with them. This was not goodbye, but merely a natural transition from one mode of life to another.

He wondered if anything would come of the King's sympathetic remarks in response to Moll's tribulations, or if all that talk was just—talk. There were rumors that a Commission would be established to pay reparations to dispossessed Loyalists. He himself would do his best to keep the matter before the public. Such a Commission might be years in the making, if it ever began hearings at all. Still, he could hope. Any remuneration would be a help to Moll. Then, too, there were Ash and Tom. If they were to receive even a fraction of the value of Rutledge's great estate—an estate that could be fairly well documented—it would be a very fine thing for them. Tavington pleased himself while the vows were exchanged, imagining how much the boys might realize. The next time Jane wrote that cousin of hers, she should ask to have a copy of her father's last will and testament sent to her. That would clearly establish their rights.

Bordon broke into his pleasant musings. "Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?"

"I do," Tavington declared, thinking this was all very agreeable.

He looked forward to the breakfast. With both gentry and countryfolk together in the Hall, it would be much like a Harvest Home supper—another Wargrave tradition too long in abeyance. October was the proper time for Harvest Homes, but Wargrave had been in confusion last October. How much had changed in only a few months!

Moll looked very well, he thought. He had never found her attractive as a woman, particularly: he had always preferred delicate women. Moll was a real Amazon, and it was easier for him to relate to her as he would another soldier than to a female fair. Today, however, she really looked quite handsome. The green gown became her, and she had a very pretty flowered stomacher to make it fine. She was wearing a heavy dark green cloak, lined with russet silk. The color made her blue eyes almost turquoise. Her complexion was fresh and rosy, and her figure was better than he had realized. She was not as good-looking a woman as Young was a man, but she was very well in her own way.

In the Tavington pew, Jane was glowing. Happiness always became her. She caught him looking at her and smiled radiantly. He imagined she was enjoying this wedding more than many another, herself.

The wedding was soon over, and the breakfast followed. There was no more drunkenness than Tavington would reasonably have expected. There was much merriment over the Bride's Pie, and the Wargrave dairymaid shrieked with joy when she found the glass ring in her own piece. There were toasts, and speeches in praise of the bride and groom. The food was hearty and good, and he noted some of it being secreted away under aprons to make a many a poor tenant's supper. No one would begrudge them today. There were quite a few children. There were the parish officers; there was George Somerville, the new steward; the owner of the little public house, The Green Knight; and at the end of their own table—

"Mr Strakes!" he said aloud, startled at the sight of the schoolmaster. "Look, John! It's Mr Strakes!"

He caught the man's eye, and gave a nod. Bordon had not told him that he had persuaded the man to return to Wargrave Cross. Time had not left him untouched, making Tavington keenly aware that he himself was no longer in his first youth. When Tavington had been a boy, Strakes had seemed a tall and terrible figure, thin and dark-haired, stern and even menacing when dealing with insolent young gentlemen. Of course, Strakes would have actually been rather young at the time. Now he must be in his fifties. The black hair was streaked with grey: the bony face was deeply lined. A permanent frown had etched itself along the sides of the schoolmaster's mouth. Today, at least, he seemed to be in a relenting mood, enjoying the feast, sitting near the Bordons.

Leaning over in his direction, Jane asked, "Who is that gentleman?"

"He was the village schoolmaster, Mr Strakes. Nay, he must be the schoolmaster again. A stern fellow, but quite the scholar. I'm glad he's back. John and I visited the school sometimes, and he was not inclined to indulge our idle folly. He did not go so far as to whip us, but he made me write out the First Declension twenty times. I don't hold it against him, though. He lent me a translation of Caesar for boys that I loved."

When he could do so without causing a stir, Tavington got up and greeted Strakes, who was deep in debate with Bordon about the exact route through Essex of the XI Hispana Legion during the revolt of the Iceni under Boadicea.

"Mr. Strakes, I am most happy at your return. You did not tell me, Bordon!"

"Did I not? Forgive me. I know I told Sir John. Yes. Mr. Strakes is undertaking the school again, and already has twenty pupils—boys and girls both."

"Colonel Tavington," the older man acknowledged him. "I heard of your exploits in America, and that you have married a very sensible and accomplished lady."

"Indeed I did. When we depart to farewell the bride and groom I should like very much to present you to her. She will be very happy about the school."

A wonderful cake was brought out. Tavington excused himself to Strakes and sat down again.

Moll put her hand to the knife, and laughed out loud, "'Tis like cutting through a mountain!"

Dense as it was, the cake was successfully cut into thick slices and passed to the tables. There was more wine, more cider, more mulled ale. Everyone was having a marvelous time—perhaps a little too marvelous. As soon as the cake was finished, Jane called Sir John to order. He gave a final toast, with that certain tone in his voice that signals a party's end. Reluctantly, the guests departed, some of them clutching at aprons and coat pockets to prevent meat pies and apples from dropping to the floor. A regular parade mobilized to escort Moll and Tom to their new home.

A group of boys had gathered up all the worn-out shoes and boots to be found in the village. With a shout of "Now!" Tom and Moll were pelted with them, and they raced to the cottage door, slamming it shut behind them, laughing. Whistles and very coarse catcalls encouraged them to be extremely happy in their married life.

Jane bit her lip, and gave Tavington a saucy glance. He smiled back, and offered her his arm. They joined the Bordons. Harriet caught Jane's eye, with a long-suffering look. Her husband and the schoolmaster were still talking about the tactics of Gaius Suetonius Paulinus.

"Jane, this is Mr. Strakes."

Jane's first impression was of looming height and thinness almost amounting to emaciation. Mr. Strakes did not smile, but the severity of his expression lightened, and he bowed very civilly.

"Your servant, Mrs. Tavington. I have heard nothing but good of you since my return to Wargrave Cross."

"You are too kind, sir. I am so happy about the school. What a lot of work it must be!"

John laughed. "Strakes is the man for it. Those little rascals have met their match!"

Strakes did not laugh. "I trust that I shall discharge my duties to your and my own satisfaction. I must say that it is very agreeable to return to such good company. Mr. Somerville is an honest man, and the Reverend Mr. Bordon a scholar of some accomplishment."

Bordon bowed his acknowledgement, smiling, and Strakes returned the courtesy with a bow of his own. He then made his farewells and stalked away, a solitary figure in black.

"He's quite brilliant," Bordon remarked, when Strakes was out of hearing. "How does such a man come to be the schoolmaster of a country village?"

Harriet answered, looking after Strakes thoughtfully. "I suppose he had no desire to be ordained, or no patron to offer a living. Really, one could imagine him as a Fellow at one of our universities. I will not say he is wasted here--for he was sorely needed--but one does wonder..."

"Lucky to get him!" laughed John. He had never wondered himself. Strakes was part of Wargrave--someone who had always been there, and should always be there. Tavington agreed, but his curiosity was piqued. He had never thought to ask. Perhaps Strakes was a younger son who could not afford a commission, or had no taste for the law. He had not seen the man in years, but now that he was here, he might take the time to know him better. It was a good thing for Bordon to have a decent companion, out here in the country.

Harriet and Bordon soon took their leave, and returned to the vicarage, Harriet leaning on her husband's arm, and the two whispering affectionately to one another. The Tavingtons walked back to the Hall in a happy silence.

Sir John smiled to himself, and then remarked in an undertone to his brother, "A wedding is a fine thing. I wish I could persuade Emily to have our wedding here at Wargrave, but I daresay she will want to be married from home."

"Most women do, John."

"Oh, well. I'm sure they have a nice little church there in Kent. The main thing is to _be _married, wherever it takes place. You've never told me about your own wedding."

Tavington felt himself grow red. "Uh—actually John, it was not a perfectly satisfactory event. We were in such a hurry—"

"The clergyman who married us was a drunken sot and very rude," Jane said concisely, rather enjoying her husband's embarrassment. "And it rained. But my sister and Captain Bordon were there, and then we had a breakfast at a very fine establishment in Charlestown—and I had never had a meal other than at a relation's table before, so it was an entirely novel experience for me."

"Really?" John was amazed. "You'd never dined at an inn? Not even when you were traveling?"

"I never traveled except a few miles upriver to a relative's estate. No. I was quite nervous about doing something so daring as consuming a meal at the Swan, but it was quite nice, really."

"I didn't know you had never been in a inn before, either," Tavington said, rather surprised.

"We didn't know one another at all well in those days, William. I think that now—" She stopped, distracted by the sight of rider galloping through the village, headed in their direction. "Do you know him?" Jane asked.

"No," said Tavington, "he may have a message from a neighbor, but at that speed it's likely he's an express rider."

John laughed at Jane's anxious expression. "Let us hope that this is once again Lady Fanshawe 'wanting to talk' to Mrs. Tavington!"

It was not. The young horseman called out, "Is one of you gentlemen Sir John Tavington? I have a letter for him!"

"I am John Tavington, lad."

The rider jumped down from the saddle, and handed the letter to John, who frowned and tore it open at once. He raised his brows briefly, and frowned more deeply.

"Bad news?" Tavington asked him.

"I don't know. Perhaps it is for the best. Our mother died in the night. Caro begs us to come home and plan the funeral."

* * *

**Note: **Queen Boadicea (more correctly Boudica) defeated a Roman army and destroyed Colchester, St. Albans, and London during her uprising in 60/61A.D. Colchester (Camulodunum) was a settlement for discharged Roman soldiers. 

Thank you to my reviewers. If you have not reviewed before, please don't let that stop you. I really do look forward to feedback. Really.

**Next—Lady Cecily's Testament **


	59. Lady Cecily's Testament

**Chapter 59: Lady Cecily's Testament**

Perhaps he had expected his mother to die: but not so soon. Tavington felt the blow more than he had imagined he would. Once gone, his mother ceased to be the sick old woman who had plagued him and wounded Jane since their arrival in England. Mamma had become once more the lovely, doting figure of his childhood. His throat was thick with emotion.

"We must return to London at once."

John, too, was looking rather miserable. "I suppose so. Yes, we must. Caro and Pen will feel it, poor girls. We must help them."

Jane sent the express rider to the Hall to have something to eat after his journey. Linking her arms with her two companions', she urged them to walk on back with her, and talk about arrangements that had to be made.

"Where is your mother to be buried?"

"Good Lord!" John groaned. "I have no idea. Will, do you remember if she said anything about it?"

"I suppose we always presumed she'd be buried in the crypt at Wargrave Church with Father. Unless something new turns up, I think we should plan on that."

"All right, then." John frowned, thinking. "We'll have to have the formal reading of the will, just to make sure—I really didn't study that bit all that carefully. We'll have her seen to, and bring her back some time on Friday for the funeral. We should have enough time that way to have our mourning ready. Caro and Pen will come back with us, of course—a shame their first trip to Wargrave in years has to be for this! We'll see who else will come out."

"Do you want me to come with you?" Jane asked, feeling she must make the offer, but hoping with all her heart they would say no.

"No, my dear," Tavington answered instantly. "There's no reason to put you and the children through all the stress of so much travel. It would be best, I think, if you stayed here and prepared the Hall for guests. Send Bordon a message about the plans and get some rest before the onslaught."

After some more thought, John said, "You may need to order in some more provisions. Uncle Colchester will come, certainly, and who knows who he'll bring with him?"

"Look here." Tavington stopped, and then made a quick decision. "Let's leave the coach here with Jane. She may need it. We'll travel on horseback and take our menservants with us. We can return in Mamma's—" he paused, grimacing. "—in Mamma's coach with the girls, and with Lucy and Protheroe if they can come, and with the hearse, and with anyone else who wishes to see Mamma off."

It was all accomplished with dispatch. By two o'clock, Jane saw the four riders disappear down the long lane and into the trees, and then she went to the nursery to play with the children.

-----

It was dark by the time they drew rein in London before their door, now decorated with the flowing black crape that betokened a house in mourning. Rivers had been watching for visitors, and welcomed them, concerned about the long cold ride they must have endured.

"Her ladyship has been laid out in the drawing room, gentlemen," he told them, in a very solemn voice. "The ladies are sitting there with her."

Without another word Tavington climbed the long staircase, with John at his back. He dreaded the sight of Mamma in her coffin, but the time had come. His sisters heard them on the stairs and came out to them, faces pale and strained, eyes reddened. Somehow, he had thought that Lucy would bear up under the loss between than Caroline and Penelope, but he had been wrong. Lucy was quite overcome with misery, and embraced both her brothers with tears. It was Penelope who was making the necessary arrangements.

She told John, "I took the liberty of sending to your tailor to make you a mourning suit. He is to have it ready by late tomorrow. I did not see the need for hurry for you, William, since you already have your mourning. We may need you to go out upon some errands for us. Mamma always liked Madame Margot's work, so I order mourning dresses from her. The undertakers were here before noon, and brought a perfectly proper coffin. Mr. Grimsby, her new lawyer, is coming on Friday morning to read Mamma's new will, but since you already read Mamma's copy, I suspect we shall have no surprises."

Lucy interrupted her. "Jane did not come with you? I am sorry not to see her, but it would have been so difficult for the children!"

"So we thought, Lucy," Tavington soothed her. "We decided it was best if Jane stayed at Wargrave and got everything ready. We will take Mamma there to be buried on Friday."

"Friday!" Caroline had been off in a world of her own, but this caught her attention. "Shall we all go? I suppose we must! What am I saying? Of course, we shall all go, but how? There are the three of us, and you and John, and Edward, and probably Uncle—"

John put his arm around his sister. It was distressing to see Caroline so upset. "We'll sort everything out, Caro—don't worry about it. Will left his carriage with Jane, but we have Mamma's. You and Pen and your maids can go in that, and if Will and I must, we will go a-horseback again. Lucy, do you think Protheroe will able to come?"

"Of course he will," Lucy sniffed, and then pulled herself together. "Of course he will. We'll have our carriage, and I daresay Uncle will want his own, because he might go straight on to Colneford after the funeral—"

A deep voice was heard below, and Rivers' helpless dithering.

"We might as well ask the man himself," John remarked dryly, "for here he is."

Lord Colchester was up the stairs and in the room as he finished speaking. In an old and too-small mourning coat, he resembled a ragpicker rather than an earl, but no one could fault his family feeling as he put out his huge arms to embrace his nieces, and to shake his nephews' hands with great compassion.

"My dear children! You're all here! Where is Cis? Is she--?"

Caro took him by the hand, and led him to the bier. Tavington himself had not yet had a chance to see his mother. They all moved to the coffin, and there was a long silence. Tavington thought, all things considered, his mother made a fairly good-looking corpse. It would have been faithful Fabienne, of course, who would have washed her and made her face up, this last time, with such loving care. The paint was thick, to cover the syphilitic sores, but she had done very well. Mamma's hair was dressed simply, with curls softening the sides of her face, partly concealing the linen band under her chin that was knotted out of sight behind the masses of her white hair. The shroud was fine linen, and wrapped about the body very neatly. Mamma's hands were folded across her breast and in them was a bouquet of jasmine and white roses.

There followed a difficult half-hour. Tears were shed, and not all of them by women. Lord Colchester wanted to talk of his sister's childhood, and the scrapes the two of them had got into. Some of the stories were very funny, but they tended to cause nostalgic sorrow rather than laughter. After the first wretchedness was over, Penelope called for tea, and saw that everyone drank some, and then they began a long, bracing conversation about what they all should do. John had looked quite miserable, and was glad of occupation.

"We'll have the lawyer over, as soon as we're fit to be seen. Do come, Uncle. I believe Mamma mentions you in the will for a mourning ring."

This distressed Lord Colchester again, and Caroline held one of his hands, while with the other he noisily blew his nose into his pocket-handkerchief. "I wanted Bill and Kitty to come with me," he told them, 'but they haven't any mourning yet, and were concerned that you would think them lacking in respect. They'll be along tomorrow, of course—whenever the clothes arrive. I had to come to you at once. Don't worry, I've ordered something better—" he heaved a rueful laugh, indicating his frayed mourning coat, "I had this from when I lost my own poor Anne. It seems I have put on a bit of weight without her to keep me up to the mark."

"Stay and dine with us, Uncle," Caroline urged him. "It is such a comfort to have you with us."

Of course he agreed, and the hours passed. Fabienne appeared, deeply grieving, to sit with Lady Cecily while the family ate.

Tavington had not liked his mother's maid much, but she had, after all, served his mother, and not him. He paused before going down to dinner, and asked her briefly about the nurse. "Did Mrs. Watkins ever come back?"

"No," the maid informed him, clearly very angry. "that horrible woman, that Nurse Venable—she stay until this morning. She was snoring when I come to awaken Madame early this morning. I knew Madame was dead at once. The doctor come when Miss Penelope call for him. He say it is her heart— _Bien_ sur, it was her heart—broken, her heart, broken by—" she pressed her lips together until they were white ridges. "The doctor, he is a fool, but that much is true. That woman, she is gone as soon as the doctor leaves. She did not stay for her money. I am glad. She deserves nothing. She did not even help to lay my poor Madame out."

"Do you think—my mother suffered?"

Fabienne shrugged. "Who can say? I did not hear her cry out in the night. Perhaps she sleeps so soundly, she never wakes. There was only the bloody nose—"

"She had a bloody nose?"

"A smear of blood from the nostril, already dark by the morning. Her eyes were shut, so I pray that she feel nothing. _Hélas!_ She is gone."

The family came in and sat with Lady Cecily. The maid was urged to get some rest, and the inconveniences caused by the nurses was the great topic of conversation with everyone. Caroline said she would send a message to Mrs. Watkins. Some wages were due her, and it was not her fault if she there had been sickness in her own family.

"I daresay that Venable creature took herself off before she could be thrown out," John growled. "She doesn't seem to have been of much use. Probably didn't have the gall to ask for money."

Tavington privately thought it was odd. Most people of that sort always had the gall to ask for money, even if they had been utterly useless. Possibly the woman had feared they would blame her for their mother's death. He was distracted from continuing this thought by the conversation of the others. His sisters, including Lucy, intended to sit up watching with their mother all night. Tavington thought it very dutiful of them, but was not about to join them. He must get some rest if his head were to be clear for business tomorrow. John agreed with him, and they escorted their uncle downstairs, with more handshakes and professions of affection before the old man left.

-----

So the house was his now, in all but name. He would have that too, after the will was read on the morrow. Early Thursday morning, Tavington wandered about upstairs, walking the long corridor, stopping before his mother's room. The door was open, and the maids were busy cleaning the room. They saw him, and bobbed respectfully.

"Go on with your work. Don't mind me."

He entered the bedroom. The bed was stripped of linen, and looked very strange to him. It was cold, for the window had been opened to air the chamber. Little Jenny, the smallest of the maids, was dusting. She, too, curtseyed at the appearance of the handsome but frightening Colonel, and went back to cleaning at his command. He wondered if Jane would want this room, and rather thought not. Though it was the best and largest in the house, it would be his mother's for years, probably. Perhaps by the time the boys were old enough to need proper bedchambers, his mother's spirit would be far enough away.

"Beg pardon, sir."

It was the little maid. She gave him a bob, and with eyes on the floor, she said, "We are very sorry, I'm sure, for your loss, sir. 'Tis a grievous thing to lose a mother."

She could not have been much older than Deborah Porter, and she meant well. Tavington was softened enough by recent events not to send her about her business with a sharp word.

"I thank you. She lived a long life, and perhaps it is best that she no longer suffers. Her maid thinks her end was peaceful, at least, and I thank God for it." He thought again of Fabienne's words.

"Was there a great deal of blood?"

"No,sir. Just the face. Ma'mselle cleaned Madame up herself, so there was none on the sheets---"

Tavington nodded, and left the room, and did not hear the rest of the sentence.

"—It was only on the pillow. Strange, that—it was on the _underside_. How would it get there? Sir?"

-----

The day was a dreary round of preparations for the funeral. His sisters, in the end, had taken turns waking and sleeping. Lucy had spent part of the night in her old room, and met Tavington on the stairs, as they went down to breakfast together. 

They held hands in silence, until Tavington said, "Don't come to the reading of the will, Lucy. John and I had a look at it. It will only hurt you. Mamma was not in her right mind when she wrote it."

"I must come, William," she replied. "I must hear her last words, even if they are cruel. I am so sad that she never forgave me. I love Edward and Ned, but sometimes I wonder if I am a wicked, selfish person."

"No!" he answered forcefully. "You're nothing of the sort. You're a very good person, and you wanted a normal life. There is nothing wicked about that. Mamma was ill. She was horrible to Jane, too, who certainly did not deserve it."

Since he already was dressed in mourning, it was Tavington who played host to the friends and family who called to pay their respect. Protheroe arrived later, to see to Lucy, but also to assist Tavington. He always had an appropriate suit of black ready, he told Tavington, since his profession often took him to houses in mourning. Mamma's favored modiste arrived in the afternoon, to finish off some plain mourning gowns for his sisters. They would no doubt be very expensive. His brother's tailor made an appearance, accompanied by four assistants, and Sir John was in mourning in a few hours.

A steady stream of deliveries came to the house: mourning livery for the butler and footmen, cloth for the maids to sew into their own mourning costumes. Cloaks and coats for the family arrived. Gradually his brother and his sisters appeared to greet the visitors, looking strange and funereal in deepest black. Some visitors merely left cards. Letters arrived, and Caroline was once again their secretary, taking note of who sent messages of condolence.

Arrangements were made for the reading of the will the following morning, to be followed by a breakfast, and then the party would leave immediately for Wargrave for the funeral to be held in the afternoon. Lord Colchester would indeed join the funeral train, along with the Sattersbys and the Trumfleets. The Bilsthorpes, if they came, would meet them at Wargrave. The funeral would be a small, private affair, since the lawyer, when applied to, had said that the lady had specified nothing about the matter in her will.

Late in the afternoon, Letty and Fanshawe came to call, Tavington's sisters were particularly happy to see Letty. They did not stay long. Letty gave him a letter for her sister and a compassionate look. The Parrots arrived, and Lady Parrott made a sobbing spectacle of herself at the coffin, her voice shrilling above the hushed tones of the others. It was a relief when the last of them left, and the family could sit down to another quiet dinner, and another evening spent watching over the pale figure holding macabre court in the drawing room.

-----

All the material signs of mourning were obtained by Friday morning. The family gathered for the reading of the will, some exhausted by sitting up all night. Protheroe came early, bringing Ned, who would travel with his mother and father to Wargrave. His nursemaid took him upstairs, and was told him keep him quiet and amused, and not to stuff him so full of sweets that he would be sick on the journey. Tavington moved restlessly about the house, not liking to spend any more time in the drawing room with Mamma than absolutely necessary. They were keeping the drawing room cold, without a fire, though with the funeral to be held promptly, there was little reason to worry about possible deterioration . Penelope had ordered a new bouquet for each day. Tavington thought it very sweet of her.

Their uncle returned, now accompanied by Sattersby and Kitty, and to Tavington's even greater annoyance, with Trumfleet and Anne. While Kitty was simply a reminder of horrible stupidity on his part, Anne was a troublemaker, and always had been. With some exasperation, Tavington managed to thank his uncle for bringing them along.

"I sent for them as soon as I heard about Cis. It was not too far for them to come. I sent an express to Sarah and Bilsthorpe, too, and perhaps they will manage the journey. I told them to go right to Wargrave, if they were coming at all."

His uncle's touching optimism about the affection among his children and his sister's never failed to exasperate Tavington. His uncle was welcome: his cousins were not.

However, they were here and looking the part of grieving relations, whatever their private views, and Tavington knew that his mother had remembered them in her will. They were all shown to the drawing room and solemnly bade farewell to Lady Cecily, whose appearance was as yet unchanged. John then spoke to the undertakers in attendance, and told them to close the coffin. More tears were shed as the nails were driven in. Afterwards, the party went downstairs to the library, where the will would be read.

Traylor Grimsby, his mother's lawyer was already established there, and was greeted civilly. He, of course, was completely aware of the family quarrels and the reason why Lady Cecily had withdrawn her favor from the Protheroes. However, he was a professional, and was here to perform his duty. There might be those gathered to together today who looked upon him as an opportunist and an interloper. It did not matter to him. 

Tavington thought him silky and effete, but he had the official copy of the will, and must be treated as his mother's legal representative.

_"'In the name of God, Amen,'_" Grimsby began.

The beginning was quite familiar. Lady Cecily left her house, its contents, and her money to her beloved son, William Mortimer Tavington, with the exception of specific bequests in her will—and, it appeared, more bequests in the codicils, which were new to him.

Tavington grimaced. Mamma must have decided to leave various keepsakes to her favorites, for he was unsure how much actual money was left. As far as they knew, her debts were paid, and Protheroe had continued pressing the collection of monies owed to her. Tavington had not asked Protheroe about the exact sums recently, not wanting to appear like a vulture. It was enough that he would not be responsible for a mountain of debt. Among the first exceptions were the bequests to Caroline and Penelope. Though they no doubt deserved more, their mother had at least left them her personal jewelry. Caroline was to receive her diamond parure—a necklace, a pair of bracelets, earrings, brooch, and ring—that Lady Cecily had received on the day of her wedding from her brother. Lord Colchester teared up at this, and patted Caroline's hand, whispering how glad he was that she should have them.

Penelope was to receive her sapphires and her best pearl set. Lady Cecily's niece by marriage, Catherine Mortimer, Lady Sattersby, was bequeathed _"the Indian ruby ring." _Lady Trumfleet was to receive her black pearl necklace. Her other niece, Lady Sarah Bilsthorpe, was to receive _"the curious brooch of amber and pearls."_ Tavington heard Lucy sigh. She had liked that brooch very much when they were children. The rest of the jewelry was to be divided between her two daughters as they saw fit.

Lady Cecily noted that another set of jewels, the old-fashioned set of rose-cut diamonds, was not her personal jewelry, but were Tavington family jewels, and thus devolved upon her eldest son, Sir John St. Leger Tavington. She wanted no one to say that she was claiming anything not rightfully hers, but Dir John had not troubled himself to marry, and thus there had been no Lady Tavington with a claim that superseded hers.

John perked up at this. He had not read the paragraphs concerning the jewelry very carefully, and was quite pleased to think that here was something nice for Emily. The jewels might need to be reset, however, in a more up-to-date style. He must take them out and have a look at them.

Fifty pounds was left to her brother, Lord Colchester, to buy a mourning ring in her memory._ "—And let it be a handsome one,"_ the will specified.

Tavington bit back a smile. Lord Colchester wiped his nose. Money for mourning rings was left to her friends Annabella, Lady Parrott and Viscount Ravenswood, and to her nephew, Lord Sattersby. In addition, Lord Ravenswood was to be given the miniature portrait of her painted in her blue Court dress in 1749. Tavington mentally checked off one of the bequests, since Lord Ravenswood was already dead. He glanced guiltily at Lucy, who was looking very sad, and recalled that Lord Ravenswood had likely been her father. Perhaps he should see that Lucy received that particular portrait.

Lady Cecily's clothes and lace were the perquisites of her faithful maid, Fabienne Boulanger. In addition, she wished said Fabienne Boulanger to receive a pension of fifty pounds per annum,_"that she not be_ _driven by want to an evil life."_

Tavington grimaced again. Mamma's clothing must be worth at least five hundred pounds! He hoped that his mother had had at least a thousand pounds left of her fortune. If she had, he could have it invested, and the interest would pay the maid her pension. It was Mamma's money, after all, and she had a right to leave it to whom she liked. The maid had indeed been fond of her: fonder and more faithful than others. The lawyer read the portions of the will concerning his own remuneration. Nothing unreasonable there. Tavington frowned thoughtfully. If he must, he would sell something out of the house to pay these bequests. There were all sorts of valuables. In Mamma's room alone there was a clutter of expensive trifles. Of course, he would let Lucy go through them, too, so that she would have something. It was too bad about the brooch.

Now came the part about Lucy, specifically cutting her off. "The undutiful daughter" was rebuked a last time. Lady Cecily had made a point of mentioning her, so that no one would think she had forgotten her, and that there was some mistake in the will. She was left nothing-not even her mother's blessing. Lucy began to cry at this, and Protheroe pulled her close to comfort her. Penelope, on her other side, took her hand, and whispered earnestly in her ear. Yes, Tavington decided, he would see that Lucy received _something._ After all, who knew when Mamma's illness had begun to affect her mind?

Their mother had added some codicils that did not appear in the will they had seen. The first, written in early 1780, concerned the disposal of her property in the event of her son William's death. The house and its contents were to go jointly to her daughters, Caroline Cecily Tavington and Penelope Priscilla Tavington, with the reservation that the house was not to be turned into some sort of institution for undeserving paupers. She did not wish to encourage Penelope's foolish charities. Because of that, her money was not to be left to them, lest they give it away to reformed prostitutes and abandoned bastards. Nor was her money to go to John, "who already had more than was good for him." John snorted at that. Tavington saw Anne smirk, and shot her a glare that made her look away. In the event of her son William's death, Lady Cecily's money was to be divided between her nieces: Anne, Lady Trumfleet, and Lady Sarah Bilsthorpe. Tavington, on hearing that, nearly snorted himself, very glad he was alive and that his cousins would get jewelry and nothing else. _No thanks to the rebels!_

Anne looked vexed, which pleased him. The lawyer moved on to some codicils which Lady Cecily had added at various times shortly after Tavington's return to England. Surprisingly, she had left her carriage to her son, Sir John.

_"—for I cannot bear to see him going about in that ridiculous curricle. He will break his neck. He ought to ride in a coach and four, more befitting his dignity as a Member of Parliament."_

She had also specified that various Tavington family articles must be regarded as John's: the old christening cup from the time of James I; the volumes in the library regarding the Tavington lineage. She understood that these were not hers to bequeath, but she wished to make clear that they could not be regarded as contents of the house that she was free to bequeath to her son William. Tavington smiled sourly here, wondering if this had been written as a reaction to his marriage.

Finally, Lady Cecily wished to specify that her children were the rightful possessors of certain papers of hers, which were kept in a box of ivory and ebony. If they were to lay hands on these papers at any time in the future, they was authorized to make what use of them he wished, and Lady Cecily hoped they would profit greatly thereby.

_The box? Is that what she's been going on about?_

"When is that codicil dated?" he asked the lawyer.

"October fifth of last year, sir," Grimsby replied.

He continued the will to its end, in which Lady Cecily commended her soul to God. A silence followed.

Tavington admitted his own disappointment. Mamma's treatment of Lucy had been very bad. And then, too, he had hoped at the last that she would relent and acknowledge, if not Jane, then at least one or both of her grandsons. She could have left a book, a picture, or an ornament—any kind of trifle. How much trouble could that have been? It would have meant so much to Lucy if Ned had been mentioned. As for William Francis—Tavington had never understood his mother's indifference to his enchanting little son. How could she not love him? It was strange and wounding. He would choose something from the house, and put it aside for his son, and tell him someday that it was from his grandmother.

Caroline audibly assured Lucy that they _would_ divide the jewels with her. "Mamma was not in her right mind for a long time, dearest," she said, echoing Tavington's own thought. "If she had not been ill, I know you would have been reconciled. Try to remember her as she was when we were children."

John, very sensibly, asked Protheroe in an undertone, "Did she have enough money left for all those bequests?"

"Yes," Protheroe answered, surprising Tavington somewhat. He added very softly, for Tavington's ear alone. "Her fortune was greatly diminished, but with her debts to others paid, and with gambling debts to her collected as far as possible, there remains some forty-nine hundred pounds, more or less."

"Really?" Tavington was quite surprised—even pleased, he admitted to himself. Not wishing to sound greedy, he added, "Then there will be no difficulty honoring her wishes?"

"None. I presume you wish to set aside a sum to pay the pension to the maid."

"Of course. No one's going to hurry the poor woman away, but she will be glad to know that she is provided for."

_And I will not have to auction off Mamma's things to do it. After the burial, I shall have Lucy go through it all, and choose what she would like. _Something else occurred to him.

"Uncle," he asked Lord Colchester, "in Mamma's last days she went on and on about that box. No one knows what she meant. Do you have any idea about papers in a—what? An ivory and ebony box?"

His uncle shook his head. "No idea. Some strange fancy of hers, I suspect. Poor Cis! A sorry end, but I shall wear the ring and think of happier times!"

The will being read, the family adjourned to have breakfast together in the dining room. Mr. Grimsby was invited, but politely declined, to everyone's relief. Penelope had seen that the breakfast was ample and comforting, and they lingered over it. Many anecdotes were related of the deceased, mentioning her beauty, her high spirits, her great acquaintance, her days at Court. There was some satisfaction expressed by those receiving keepsakes. Lady Trumfleet, however, was not satisfied with merely mentioning her bequest.

"It was so kind of my aunt to think of me. Her beautiful black pearls! I shall treasure them for her sake. My dear Caroline, since I am here—would it not be easier for all concerned if I took them with me now? Then you would not have to bother with sending them on." She smiled graciously at Kitty. "And Kitty's ring, too. Why should she not have it now? It really would be the easiest thing."

Kitty, to her credit, turned red, feeling Anne's bad taste in demanding the jewelry before the funeral. Caroline looked angry and upset, but rang for a footman.

Crisply, she said, "Ask my mother's maid to find her black pearls and the Indian ruby ring, and put them in boxes for Lady Trumfleet and Lady Sattersby."

"—and Sarah's brooch, too, if it is not too much trouble," Anne added sweetly. "I can give it to her the next time I see her."

Incensed, Caroline replied, "_I _can give it to her the next time_ I_ see her. I would not dream of troubling you."

"La! It is no trouble at all. I cannot get those lovely pearls out of my head. Did not my dear aunt have some earrings that matched? I wonder that she did not mention them. It seems a pity to break up the set."

"A great pity," Caroline replied stonily, "but such was my mother's will."

Her voice had risen, and by this time, the whole table was listening. Lord Colchester, doting as he was, felt that Anne had been, perhaps, a little too forward.

"Never mind, Anne my dear," he declared cheerfully. "I'll take the brooch, and give it to Sarah. We shall see each other later today, like as not. I don't see any reason to hurry, but if it worries you, let's settle the business, and leave dear Caroline to think about more important things."

There was great embarrassment at the table. Caroline was furious, and even Penelope was put out. Lucy stared at her plate. Sattersby, the least surprised at Anne of the entire party. rolled his eyes expressively at his wife.

Kitty whispered to John, by whom she sat, "Please believe I never said anything about the ring. I can wait perfectly well until everyone has had time to recover."

"Never mind," John whispered back. "Just be glad you're here to _get _the ring. If Caroline had let Anne have it to give to you, ten to one you'd never have seen it! Anne never saw a piece of jewelry that she didn't like."

Within the quarter hour, the pieces of jewelry, each in its own proper case, was brought down and distributed. Anne opened hers immediately, to exclaim over the beauty of her aunt's bequest. Kitty would have preferred not to do anything so rude as make a parade of her possession, especially in front of Lucy, whom she felt sorry for. She had met Lucy before their marriages, and had thought her very lovely and very nice. It was sad to see her brought so low—married to a mere lawyer, and cut off by her mother. Perhaps she had brought it on herself, but Kitty could not help feeling that Lady Cecily had been the chief culprit.

Caroline, however, wanted her to make certain the ring was in good condition. Kitty understood that she wished her receipt of the jewel to be publicly witnessed, lest there be complications later.

"Oh, my, it _is_ lovely!" she said, opening the little box. It was a massive, dome-shaped ring: heavy gold heaped with pigeon-blood rubies. A great one in the center, surrounded by two ovals of smaller stones. It was quite magnificent—even exotic. She did not yield to the temptation to put it on at once, but showed it to Sir John on one side, and on the other to Lord Trumfleet, who grunted in approval.

Lord Colchester casually shoved the box containing the brooch in a pocket, and was quiet deaf to any application by his daughter to show it to the assembled company.

"Sarah will see it," he declared. "It's no one else's business."

There was a general movement to prepare for the journey. The undertakers brought the coffin down the stairs, to seal it into the lead outer coffin already waiting in the hearse. The carriages had been brought round, and the luggage loaded. It would be quite a cortege: Caroline, Penelope and their maids would travel in their mother's coach; Tavington and John with their uncle; the Sattersbys, Trumfleets, and Protheroes each in their own carriage. Even with a team of eight to the hearse, the journey would take longer than usual, due to the weight of the coffin. They did not expect to reach Wargrave much before four o'clock. The funeral would take place almost immediately. Even if it were dark, it would not be very difficult, since the burial would be in the crypt, and no one would be falling down into open graves in a dark churchyard.

Tavington nearly ran into Kitty in all the confusion with the carriages. She looked up at him shyly. He had exchanged not more than ten words with her at the ball, and said nothing but the briefest of greeting today. Sattersby was watching her, fiercely possessive, and Tavington did not wish to make any more trouble between man and wife. Even the light, discreet touch of Kitty's gloved hand on his arm awakened no emotions. Whatever had been there was gone, and he simply flicked her a polite smile as he bowed and made way for her. Her husband hurried up, jealously handing her into their coach. Tavington stood back, and then told his uncle that he must have a word with his mother's maid.

She came at the summons, looking very frightened, and Tavington imagined she thought he was about to order her out of the house.

"I must leave for my mother's funeral immediately. However, Lady Cecily was generous to you in her will, and has left you a pension. I shall return Monday to discuss it with you. Please do not depart before then. I am sorry I have no more time to speak of it, but I must go. Until then."

He left a stunned and tearful Fabienne behind him. The door shut on her exclamations about the nobility and munificence of her poor Madame.

-----

The last two days had been tiring. Even Lord Colchester was worn out by his vigil over his sister's coffin. The three men chatted a little, and dozed during the carriage ride. John brought out a flask of brandy, and they shared it solemnly, referring to Lady Cecily. Colchester was not as blind to his children's faults as he might have seemed, for he apologized for Anne's pushing ways.

"Think nothing of it, Uncle," Tavington replied. "We all know how Anne is. It's just that it was unkind to make such a show of her bequest while Lucy received nothing."

"Poor Lucy!" Colchester exclaimed. "Protheroe seems a good sort. Is she happy with the fellow?"

"Very much so. He is very devoted to her and to their son. She often brings Ned with her when she visits at Mortimer Square. He's a delightful child. You must make his acquaintance once we are all at Wargrave."

"I'd like that. I find the waiting hard until Kitty has her first. I daresay I shall make a great ass of myself over the youngster. Hope it's a boy, of course, but little girls are dear creatures. Kitty will be a very good mother, I'm sure."

"Nothing more likely," replied John, saving Tavington from having to say anything. "Uncle—are you sure you don't know anything about a box? Mamma might have stowed something away at Colneford. It might have been an idle fancy, or it might not."

"No, really, my dear boy. Can't think what she was going on about. Is there any brandy left?"

-----

**Next: Of Funerals and Other Family Gatherings  
**


	60. Of Funerals and Other Family Gatherings

**Chapter 60: Of Funerals and Other Family Gatherings**

Possibly she should be disappointed in herself. Yes, Jane supposed, it was wrong to care so little about Lady Cecily's death. The excuse that she had been ill, and that this must be a blessed release for her was just that—an excuse. Jane was keenly aware that if she had been fond of Lady Cecily, if her mother-in-law had made the slightest attempt at befriending her, then Jane would have been feeling very differently as she waited at Wargrave for the funeral party.

It was disgraceful, indeed, but Wednesday through Friday morning was a very merry time. She and Harriet were in and out of each other's houses, cementing a friendship that promised to be one of the best and happiest of Jane's life. Harriet thought so much like Jane herself—her interests were similar, and she found humor in the same things. Jane had never had a woman friend like her. She had been close to some of her female relations in South Carolina, and of course loved Letty deeply, but those were bonds of blood. Jane had never imagined how delightful a friend could be whom she could choose for herself.

Ash was happier, too: now beginning to believe Jane's promises that he would never be sent away among strangers again. He was so little that she was surprised at how strongly the upheaval of the past few months had affected him. She had always heard that children could adapt to anything. Guiltily, she remembered that Biddy had shaken her head at that, and remarked that what children liked was things to be the same: meals at the same time, bedtime at the same time, familiar people about them when they ought to be.

So she kept another promise, and brought him with her to call on Moll at Ironsides Cottage late Thursday afternoon. Tom Young had come to the Hall on Thursday morning, to help prepare for guests, and Moll would be back in the nursery on Friday. Nonetheless, Moll had wanted Jane to see her cottage "with all the things laid out."

Taking Ash by the hand, Jane walked the short distance to the pretty thatched cottage, very conscious of her pistol in her pocket. She had promised herself never to be without it again. Today, she had not only herself to think of , but Ash to protect. The little boy toddled along slowly, but refused her offer to carry him. Had the Colonel been there, Jane knew, he might have been willing. Ash seemed to like William: and William, for all his complaints about Ash's tantrums, was very kind to her brother.

Perhaps Ash had needed a father. However proud Papa had been of his son, he had never appeared in the nursery, to Jane's knowledge, and had never asked that Ash be brought down for a visit. Jane wondered if her brother had known their father at all. Had he been older, she might have asked, but Ash was too little for such conversations. She wondered what he would remember of these strange events, when he grew up.

Jane's own earliest memory was of a children's party for her cousin Polly Middleton, and how struck she had been by the beauty of the little cakes that had been served them: heart-shaped cakes sprinkled with colored sugar. Polly had worn a little yellow gown embroidered with butterflies that Jane had gawked at in wonder and delight. She could not have been more than three, but Jane could picture it to this day, and recall her first acquaintance with pretty things. It was always coupled with a certain melancholy, for Polly had died young, struck down by a fever before she turned fifteen.

"Here we are, Ash!" she said. "This is Moll's new house. Isn't it pretty?"

Ash liked it, after a critical look. He trotted ahead of her, and grinned back, getting ready to knock with both hands as hard as he could. Before he could, the door opened inward, and Moll bent down to sweep him off his feet and give him a kiss.

"Well! Look who's here! Mr. Ashbury Rutledge, come to call! You come right on in, sir! Glad to see you, Mrs. Tavington! Seems like I couldn't wait 'til you were here! Come in! Come in! Sit yourself down by the fire, and I'll bring you a cup of tea!"

Rambler, lazing before the kitchen hearth, got up to give them a friendly greeting. Ash put his arms around the shaggy neck and giggled while his face was thoroughly licked. He clung to Rambler's collar as the dog followed the two women wherever they went. Jane admired the big, clean kitchen and the tiny parlor, and accepted tea in one of Moll's prized new cups gratefully. Moll gave Ash a Carolina-style biscuit, baked in the little oven at the side of the kitchen hearth, slathered with some bottled rose-hip preserves she had bought in London.

Ash munched and shared some with Rambler, and then wanted to get into everything, and so they kept an eye on him as they walked all over the cottage. Jane sighed to herself, with each bit of evidence that Moll was to some degree now her own mistress. It was for the best, of course. There was a cradle in one of the little upstairs rooms, and Moll was piecing a tiny quilt for it. The baby who would live here in Ironsides Cottage would inevitably pull Moll further away from Jane, but Jane hoped the child would be healthy and strong and a joy to his mother and father.

She briefly pictured his happy life here: loving parents; a few years at the village school; perhaps an apprenticeship in Chelmsford (Jane could picture Moll's son as a master blacksmith or wheelwright); or perhaps going into service at one of the family's houses in town. If he were as handsome as his father, he would be much in demand as a footman. Perhaps he might even be trained as a gentleman's valet. That sounded odd to her, and she then imagined him staying at Wargrave, perhaps becoming head gamekeeper. It would be a fine thing if Moll could pass on her woodcraft and marksmanship to her child. These pleasant thoughts filled her mind as she and Ash walked home later.

While the servants finished making all the beds and seeing that there was enough to feed the coming mourners, Jane spent a quiet evening. She dined alone, stuffed pigeon on toast on a tray in front of the fire in her room. She went upstairs and helped with the children until they were all safely tucked in their beds. An early night seemed wise, since this was the calm before the storm tomorrow.

It was very uncertain when the family would arrive, so Young had some boys posted to bring him word of the funeral cortege as soon as it was in sight. Jane bustled about, seeing to the last details, greeting Moll happily when she walked over from her cottage. The time passed quickly, and at two in the afternoon she was very startled to be told that a visitor had arrived. Amazed that they could have arrived so quickly, she went down and found a very dirty and rumpled woman, whom she would not have recognized as a lady, save for the name by which Young announced her.

"Lady Sarah Bilsthorpe," Young proclaimed, a little doubtfully.

It took Jane a moment to decipher who this might be. _Ah, yes. _This was Lord Colchester's younger daughter, arrived from the north. . Neither of the two ladies had ever met, but Jane had heard the name, and greeted the women kindly for her father's sake. She showed her to a room on the second floor, where she could change into clothing unstained by travel, and invited her to join Jane for refreshments downstairs.

Knowing Lady Trumfleet, she was taken aback by Lady Sarah. She had been expecting the same sort of handsome, supercilious fine lady. Instead, Lady Sarah was a small, thin, energetic woman, shorter than Jane, with a smudged face and out-of-date clothes very much the worse from her rapid journey. She might have been younger in years than her sister, but looked much older, with a weather-beaten look and unfashionably brown skin. Evidently she spent long hours out of doors. Though she did not have her father's big bones, she curiously had his big voice, very incongruous in such a small woman, and she heartily declared herself very obliged to Mrs. Tavington for receiving her at Wargrave.

"Haven't been here in forever," Lady Sarah boomed. "Always liked it. How was the huntin'?"

"Lord Colchester hosted a hunt that went very well. The gentlemen did more shooting, however. The game was wonderfully plentiful."

"I'm glad to hear it! How is Will? I hope he hasn't lost his looks! Word was that he got himself sliced up in America!"

"He is very well. He was indeed badly wounded, but he has a very strong constitution, and has completely recovered. He is very happy to back in England, of course."

"Do you like it, Mrs. Tavington? I mean, is it to your taste?" She gave a self-deprecating shrug, and asked, "I mean to say, do you hunt, or are you all for gossip and accomplishments, like my sister Anne?"

Unsure how much she should say, Jane temporized. "I did not hunt with Lord Colchester's party, as there was no time to find a mount for me. I do ride—but I had not ridden in some time. I hope to improve in the warmer weather. As to the other, I confess I am not much for gossip, but I am very fond of music and enjoy playing."

"Well," Lady Sarah answered, determined to make the best of it. "I'm glad you're willin' to ride. Anne goes out for an hour or so and then lollops on home and eats cake. Exercise is as good for a woman as it is for a man!"

"I am sure you are right," Jane agreed.

Lady Sarah, she found, could be entertained by a tour of Wargrave, and a discussion of the recent renovations. She shook her head over the sorry state of the stables and carriage house, and advised Jane as to how to proceed there. Jane tried to engage her in conversation about the Bilsthorpe's little girl. Lady Sarah told her absently that the girl's name was Emma, and that she was six years old and had a good seat on her pony—and then broke off, for they took a brief walk into the dormant gardens.

Jane discovered her companion's grand passion was not for motherhood, but for gardening. Once started, Lady Sarah was very difficult to stop. After a dissertation on roses, and another on why flowers of scarlet and yellow look demonic together in an English garden, Jane had to plead cold feet in order to persuade Lady Sarah back into the house.

"I'm glad you like it here." Lady Sarah confided to the estate in general. "I love England myself. Not London, of course—who could? I love the country. Bilsthorpe and I have the prettiest place. He couldn't get away, but I couldn't let Father be alone right now. He and Aunt Cecily had their differences, but he can't help but feel it, now that she's gone."

Jane looked at her companion approvingly. She was much more appealing than her sister, despite the unfashionable clothes and the traces of dirt under her fingernails. Jane let Lady Sarah go on about her horses and her rhododendrons, and the time passed not unpleasantly.

There was a shout and a whistle a little after half-past four. The message passed quickly up to the Hall, and Jane, who had been dressed for the occasion since noon, set out for the church with Lady Sarah, at the head of a little company of servants and retainers who could be spared from preparing the Hall to attend the funeral.

There were those who held that women ought not to attend funerals. Jane was aware that in certain circles it was not the done thing: a lady should instead stay at home, grieving in private. Jane wondered if the fashion had come about because women could sometimes not get their elaborate mourning costumes finished by the time a burial became imperative. At any rate, it was clear that Lady Cecily's daughters wished to attend their mother's funeral. If they so wished, then Jane would come too and lend her support.

Bordon was prepared for the funeral party, and it had been determined to have the ceremony as soon as they arrived, while there was still light. The villagers of Wargrave Cross, and also many from Larrowhead and High Wargrave turned out to see Lady Cecily interred beside her late husband. Somerville, the new steward, and Strakes the schoolmaster were both present, as well. When Penelope stumbled over the threshold of the church, a lean black-clad arm shot out and righted her before she could fall.

"Thank you, Mr. Strakes," Penelope whispered. The schoolmaster nodded without speaking, his face settling back into its usual grim lines.

Jane was glad she was there, for her sisters-in-law were overcome with grief, and tears glistened on the heavy mourning veils covering their faces. She sat between William and Caroline, and listened to the soft sobbing, feeling very sad and uncomfortable. Both John and Lord Colchester rose and gave eulogies. John's was short and serious, and he spoke of Lady Cecily's great devotion to her family. Jane knew that he had long ago ceased to love or respect his mother, but it was proper that her eldest son speak at the funeral, and John did not wish to hurt or scandalize the rest of his family.

Lord Colchester rambled, very affectionately, his speech often broken by long pauses, during which he sought to collect himself. His children sat together. Lady Trumfleet looked very bored, but the others behaved decently, Jane was glad to see.

The service itself was not long, but before it was all over, the candles were lit, and the lanterns too, which many of the congregation had brought with them. The men of the family, and the sexton and his helpers, carried the coffin down into the deep shadows of the crypt. The opened tomb was filled, and resealed, and Lady Cecily and her once beloved Sir Jack were again united.

The good people who had come bowed and bobbed, and touched their forelocks very dutifully, though none cared a pin for the old lady, whom none of them had seen in over a decade. Lady Cecily had not endeared herself to the village folk during her residences. It was felt that respect was due to the Master and his family, however, and the turnout was quite large.

The family climbed back into their carriages, to make the short trip up to the Hall. There was a dinner ready, and Jane led them all inside, concerned for their long journey in the cold, in such low spirits. Bordon was asked to join them, and while he wondered if the family really would not rather keep to themselves, Jane convinced him that his presence would be comforting to Mrs. Protheroe and the Misses Tavington. As Jane suspected he would, Sir John pressed his uncle and the rest of the mourners to stay the night at Wargrave, not wanting them to chance the rough roads in the dark. There was not even a moon up yet to light their way.

"Better to stay. There is plenty of room for you all. Mrs. Tavington has seen to it herself."

Lord Colchester seemed willing, and John whispered to Jane that his uncle was to have the Great Chamber.

"I can make do with my old room on the second floor—the little one next to the nursery."

"Oh, dear. That room is still not quite—"

"It's all right. I can make shift well enough. Uncle Colchester should have every attention."

There were certainly beds for everyone, though not necessarily the beds they would have wished. Jane suspected that Lady Trumfleet would be vexed to have to share a bed with her husband, but the Tapestry Room was very fine; and if the Lady wished to banish her husband to the day bed in the nearby dressing room, that was between them.

The Protheroes, she knew, were happy to share a bed. About the Sattersbys she had no idea. She assigned them the Print Room, as it was one of the best in the house, and it was not next door to her own. The rest of the party was on the second floor. Caroline and Penelope grew quite sentimental over sleeping in the rooms that had always been theirs. They too were not perfectly restored, but they were adequate for ladies who would not take delight in finding fault.

The servants were probably not quite so well satisfied, but there was room. The male servants could use the quarters vacated by the roofers, and another room had been prepared for the influx of ladies' maids.

Dinner was a quiet affair. Lord Colchester was very pleased with Lady Sarah, and as he had not seen her in months, they chatted together, telling one another all their news. John exerted himself as host, and Protheroe and Bordon between them did much to get the Tavington sisters through the meal without breaking down. Jane suspected it was they who did not allow the gentlemen to sit long over their wine. Instead, the men came into the drawing room to join the ladies very soon.

Music was unthinkable at such a time, but Lord Colchester expressed a wish to see "that fine little fellow of yours, Mrs. Tavington. I heard that Lucy's son is here, too. Children are the best comfort when one is low. They are here, are they not?"

"Of course, my lord. They are in the nursery along with my two brothers, who arrived from America last month."

"Really? How old are they? Bring them down, too, then! Bring them all down! I should like to meet the lads! Sarah, why didn't you bring my little Emma?"

"She had a cold, Father. It would have been too hard on her. I hardly stopped for a bite on the road—only long enough to change horses. You should come up to the Abbey and spend a month or two."

Jane sent for the children, and settled down near her husband and Lord Colchester. There was more chat about the family, and Trumfleet persuaded Sir John that a quiet game of cards would not be disrespectful. Lady Trumfleet was eager for any sort of diversion on such a dreary occasion, and called her brother Sattersby to join them. A card table was set up for them at the end of the big room.

Protheroe and Bordon talked quietly together. Lucy, Caroline, and Penelope urged Lady Sattersby and Lady Sarah to join them, and Lucy and Kitty discussed their health and their hopes. Lord Colchester wanted to know more about Jane's brothers.

"Such little fellows! The younger not a year old, you say! And to undertake the voyage across the Atlantic! We live in desperate times. Ah! There they are!"

Lucy rose to bring Ned over to meet his great-uncle. The little boy's wide eyes showed that he did not quite know what to make of this very big, booming stranger, but he bowed shyly and then was persuaded to sit by Lord Colchester and watch the other boys being introduced.

"Ash, come here and meet the Earl of Colchester. Make your little bow, Ash. Very nice. My lord, this is my brother, Ashbury Rutledge."

Ash was shy as Ned at such a crowd, but to Jane's surprise took to Lord Colchester quite readily. He was on the old man's knee and talking about "Wambler" almost at once. The story was told of Rambler's adventures. Moll was greeted as an old friend, and congratulated her on her marriage. Lord Colchester took William Francis from her and sat the baby on his other knee.

"Growing into a lad already! And who is this young gentleman?"

He smiled broadly at little Thomas, whom Jane had taken from the other maid's arms. Thomas was in a good mood, and smiled back. Lord Colchester was not a naturally suspicious man, or a man who examined the world with a analytical eye. He was, however, a man who loved his family, and was intensely observant of resemblances. He took a second look at little Thomas. His eyes widened, and he glanced at his nephew William with a hint of reproach. Tavington met his uncle's look with some embarrassment. He grimaced, and then attempted an uneasy smile. Jane, however, saved him the necessity of speaking.

"My _brother,_ Thomas Rutledge. He is our little William's senior by three months. He is very dear to me."

Jane gave Lord Colchester a calm, candid gaze that told him that she knew everything. The old man understood, and longed to hear the entire story. That would have to told in private, but he was determined to know everything. Clearly this was William's natural child, but Mrs. Tavington had been so good as to accept him into the family. Very kind of her. His liking for Jane increased the more.

"Such a handsome rascal! You'll be put through your paces, Mrs. Tavington, caring for all these lads!"

He patted Ash, who slid off his knee and tried to look through Tavington's pockets. "At least they won't be lonely! Playmates and companions always at hand! Did I ever tell you about the time Cis and I took it into our heads to ride to Scotland? She was eight and I was seven, and we nearly—"

He talked a little longer, telling of their childhood escapades. Ned was warming to him, liking to hear about the ponies, and clambered onto his great-uncle's knee in Ash's place. Ash was trying to get Tavington's attention. Tavington did not quite understand the question, and lifted the little boy to sit beside him.

"What did you say, Ash?"

In a very small voice, Ash asked again, "Izzat your Papa?"

Lord Colchester chuckled, amused and pleased.

Tavington answered, "No, Ash. The Earl is my uncle. He is the brother of my mother."

"Did your Muvver die?"

"Yes, Ash. My mother died and we had her funeral today to say goodbye to her."

Ash stood up on the sofa and gave Tavington a light kiss on the cheek. "I'm sowwy your Muvver died, Kernah."

Lord Colchester's eyes grew moist again, "Kind-hearted little man," he muttered.

"Thank you, Ash," Tavington told him. "I appreciate your sentiments." He could see that this was incomprehensible, so he added, "You're a good boy."

Lucy smiled, and whispered to Jane that is was time to take the children to bed.

"I shall take them," Jane whispered back. "Why don't you stay with the party? Your sisters seem calmer with you there."

"Thank you. I shall give Ned a kiss—and then they should be off. Say goodnight to the Earl, children."

"G'night, Mr. Earl."

"Goodnight, Mr. Earl."

"No, Ned," Lucy corrected softly, "He is your uncle."

"Goodnight, Uncle Earl."

The Earl laughed heartily, and shook each tiny hand in his own huge paw. There was a rustle of amusement throughout the room. The babies were gathered up by the servants, and Jane gave a hand each to Ned and Ash. The Tavington ladies wanted to kiss the boys goodnight, and were permitted the liberty without much fuss. As she left the room, Jane overheard Kitty compliments on the "pretty little boys."

With Jane's departure, the party began to break up somewhat. The card game ended, and some of the party were ready to retire for the night, weary with grief and the rigors of a long carriage ride. Bordon spoke briefly with Lady Cecily's daughters, and they thanked him for his kind attentions. He bowed his goodnights to the party, and Tavington walked him to the door, feeling grateful for his calm manner himself.

Lords Trumfleet and Sattersby were falling asleep in their chairs. Lady Trumfleet was dozing as well, snoring daintily, much to everyone's amusement. Lady Sarah took pity on her sister, and gave her a shake.

"Anne! Go to bed!"

"Wh—at?" Lady Trumfleet saw them all looking at her. "I must have fallen asleep—"

Her sister attempted to lower her voice to a whisper. "Yes, and you were _snoring!_ Go to bed before everyone bursts out laughing!"

Injured pride made the older sister waspish. "I _shall. _I only wanted to remind my father to give you your bequest. Papa, did you remember to give Sarah the brooch Lady Cecily intended for her in her will? You are to have the amber and pearl brooch, Sarah. Do you remember?"

She saw that Lucy could hear and raised her voice a little more. "It is the one my aunt wore a great deal when we were children. Do you remember how Cousin Lucy liked it? Well, you are to have it. Give it to her directly, Father. I long to see it again. It is so charming."

Lord Colchester pulled the box from his pocket with a long-suffering air. "Here, my dear," he said in a low voice, for him. "Don't make a fuss over it. Cis was hard on Lucy in the will, and didn't leave her anything."

Her mouth open, Lady Sarah took the box, having known nothing about the matter. "Well—I—that's very nice, but—"

Lady Trumfleet could not be silenced. "Kitty was left her ruby ring, and I received her black pearls. I would have put them on directly, but they might need restringing. I have them here. Don't you want to see them? Our aunt was so good to remember us, but then, she was always generous to the deserving—"

"That's enough!" Caroline jumped to her feet and stalked over to her cousin. "You are being perfectly odious, Anne. Odious and ill-mannered to gloat over your booty! How dare you hurt Lucy, who never harmed you? Take your pearls and may they choke you!"

The rest of the gentlemen were awakened by Caroline's angry reproaches.

Lord Trumfleet grinned to himself, and then rose in the appalled hush to retrieve his wife. "Anne, you must be exhausted. Perhaps you should retire. Come along, Madam. It is fatigue that makes you go on so."

"Yes—fatigue," mumbled Lord Colchester, rather dazed at the scene.

Anne could not believe she had been so rebuked, but Trumfleet was practically pushing her out of the room. Sir John put an arm around Caroline, and ushered her over to the sofa. Lucy was crying on Protheroe's shoulder, and he said something to the effect that they would be off to bed themselves, soon.

Lord Sattersby remarked sourly under his breath, "But not so soon as to meet Anne on the stairs. What a damned bitch she is, anyway."

Kitty wanted only to be invisible, hating the mention of that opulent ring. Caroline apologized to Lord Colchester.

"I'm sorry I lost my temper, Uncle. It just seemed so unkind—"

"Think nothing of it, my dear," said the Earl, trying to pretend nothing had happened. "We're all tired and cross. Funerals are always hard on the nerves. We'll all be better for a good night's sleep. Come here, Lucy, my dear. Don't you mind Anne. She's a bit silly about jewelry, poor thing. Always has been. Protheroe, your servant, sir. Take good care of my niece. I hope to see more of you, and that nice little lad of yours too. Can't wait to see how he shapes up a-horseback."

Lucy and Protheroe left the room, accompanied by Lady Sarah, who said she needed a good night's sleep, too. Caroline and Penelope bade everyone goodnight, and their Uncle told Caroline again not to worry. In fact, while he hated confrontations as much as his nephew Sir John, he had thought Anne needed a set-down for some time, and was very glad that he had not had to do it himself.

"It's only ten o'clock," Trumfleet yawned. "Ridiculous to go to bed at such an hour. Couldn't we have another hand of whist?"

"I'd like that, actually," Sattersby agreed, "but Kitty should go to bed."

"Yes," declared Lord Colchester, very solicitously. "Kitty, dear, you must have your rest."

Unable to contradict such authorities, Kitty rose and said her goodnights. She tried to catch Tavington's eye, but he was lost in thought, wondering what to do for Lucy. Frustrated, she left the room.

"Are you in, Tavington?" Trumfleet called.

"Not I, unless Uncle does not wish to play. What do you prefer, sir?"

Lord Colchester was unsure, until it seemed that dear Will really was inclined to go to bed. That settled, he sat down with his nephew, his son, and his son-in-law, and Tavington left the four of them to their game. Sattersby glanced after him, feeling that he should keep an eye on his cousin, but there was no escape from the card table.

"One hand only. Kitty and I will need to make an early start in the morning," he remarked casually, hoping that a brief game would give his wife no time for serious indiscretion.

-----

Tavington had not expected the ambush. Kitty called out softly to him as he walked by her room.

"Tavington!"

He stopped, rather horrified. Anne was in the room across the hall, Lucy and Edward only a few yards further. Jane was beyond them. Any one of them might suddenly pop out and surprise them. The thought of Jane seeing him in a tete-a-tete with Kitty froze his blood. He did not want to quarrel with Jane about anything, and certainly not over a woman who no longer charmed him. He bowed, and made to pass.

"Lady Sattersby. Good night to you."

"Wait!" she pleaded, clutching at his sleeve. "I've been dying to talk with you. It's been so long. I haven't seen or heard from you since October. Those few moments at the ball were nothing. And you did not ask me to dance. How could you be so cruel?"

"Cruel, Madam?" Tavington wanted only to be rid of her, but he did not want a scorned woman shouting the house down. "With your husband on the watch, it would be cruel to pay you attentions that could only lead to unhappiness for you. I know of no other way to protect you from his anger than by showing perfect indifference."

"I knew it!" she cried. "I knew you were only ignoring me because of Bill. He is so jealous! But now—with the baby—"

"May I presume to wish you joy?" Tavington said smoothly, with a bland smile. "I am certain you will be an excellent mother, and I trust your child bring you the greatest happiness."

"How good of you to think of it! You are such a kind parent yourself—quite devoted. Oh, I wish—I wish—Tavington, I was so wretched when I lost—dare I speak of it?" She whispered, "I lost the other child--the child of my heart! It pains me whenever I think of it—"

"Then you must not!" Tavington urged her. "It profits nothing to dwell on the past. The child you are now carrying binds you to the future and to happiness, and to the esteem of your husband and father-in-law. It is for the best. I could never have forgiven myself, if I had been the cause of your ruin."

"Oh, Tavington!"

Instantly she was in his arms, kissing him passionately. Tavington felt a moment of panic, and only just refrained from thrusting her away. Instead, he allowed her to kiss him, but after a short and pleasant interlude, he broke the kiss, and gave her what he hoped was a kind smile.

"A sweet farewell. That must be the last."

"Oh, Tavington! How can I bear it?"

"You must bear it for your child's sake." He smiled again, waiting for the perfect moment to let go of her hands and escape. She was not finished with him, however.

"Have you ever thought—of running away?" she breathed.

Tavington frowned. It was one thing to be a lost love. This, however, was a line of thought he could not countenance.

"Run away? Never!"

"But we could! We could run away to the Continent, and live for love, always!"

"Only cowards run away, Kitty. I am a soldier. I have never run, and I never will."

"Not even for me?"

He smiled again, trying to get his hands away, but she was clinging like a limpet. "Not even for you, Madam. '_I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not honour more.'" _

"That is so beautiful. What a pity we did not meet before. Bill is so cold! He does not understand me, Tavington! And you—I pity you with all my heart!"

Tavington's smile froze. "_Pity_ me, Madam?"

"Oh, yes! It must be so difficult for you. Mrs. Tavington may be a good mother and housekeeper, but she is so prosaic, so humdrum, so utterly without passion! Whereas I—"

Tavington dropped Kitty's hands. "Do not presume to criticize Mrs. Tavington. She risked her life to save mine. She has endured adventures and hardships you cannot imagine. I owe my life and fortune to her. I will never leave her. To do so would be vile and despicable. Surely you must see that a man who left her would be unworthy of your own trust."

Kitty plainly did _not_ see it, and her beautiful eyes filled with tears. Tavington felt he had hazarded enough trying to talk to her, and simply took her hand and kissed it.

"Honor binds us both. I truly wish you happy, always." Feeling like the most horrible hypocrite, he turned on his heel, and made his escape.

Doggery was not waiting for him, since Tavington had previously told him not to sit up. The bedcurtains were drawn, and the room was lit only by the fire and single candle. Tavington threw off his clothes and climbed gratefully into bed, trying to be quiet. He hoped he was not disappointing Jane, but in fact the days of little sleep and coach travel had taken its toll, and he longed for the simple comfort of sleep beside her in that broad bed. He curled up behind her and draped an arm over her, but sleep did not come. His body was exhausted, but his mind was racing with the changes a few days had wrought. Jane turned on her side, and Tavington wondered if she might be awake enough for conversation.

"Jane?"

"Ummmm?"

"Thank you for putting up with my family. I know it cannot be easy. It is not easy for me. There was a bit of a contretemps between Anne and Caroline. I'll tell you about it in the morning."

"Oh—really? Most of them are quite all right. I enjoyed talking with Lady Sarah. She is something of an original. Besides, I love your sisters, and Lord Colchester is a very good man. He is so kind to the children."

"Yes. He's such a good old fellow. It makes me happy, somehow, knowing he's under the same roof, even for a night."

He began to relax, but wanted to tell Jane more of the news in the privacy of their bed.

"Mamma had a bit of money left. I was very surprised, all things considered. She left a pension to her maid, and a few other odd bequests, but after everything is paid, there will be over three thousand pounds left, which goes to me."

"Hmm?" Jane woke a little. "That _is_ good news. What do you want to do with it?"

"I hadn't thought about it. Perhaps I should settle it on you."

Jane woke up a little more. "Let's talk about this tomorrow morning. I'd really rather you settled it on William Francis. Three thousand pounds! That is very fine. Were it well invested, it might be near to ten thousand by the time he is of age. Let me think about it a little more. Very good news. I am concerned about your sisters. They are taking your mother's death very hard."

"I don't know why. It should be a great relief to them, but they seem beset by guilt, each in a different way. We must keep them occupied for these few days."

"Yes, indeed, but I'm so tired, William. Don't you want to sleep?"

"I suppose so. I had to tell you about the money. I never thought I'd inherit a penny from my family. It's not much, I know, but it's _something." _

"Yes. It's wonderful," she mumbled. "Shut your eyes and sleep now, or I shall be forced to use desperate measures on you."

"I just thought you should know—"

"Shhh."

-----

Breakfast seemed to last the entire morning. People were in and out of the dining room. True to his word, Lord Sattersby arranged to leave early and return to London. Jane saw the Sattersbys off with kind words and a feeling of deep relief. William had been very good about not even speaking to the lady. Tavington's relief was even greater.

Lord Colchester did not want to desert them, and decided to stay a little longer. Since they were returning to London on Monday, he would stay with them until that morning, and then go to Colneford. Lady Sarah would travel with him. She was still trying to persuade him to accompany her north for a long visit. Jane was glad of their company, since she was expecting an onslaught of sympathy calls in the afternoon. With so much of the family present, she would not have to deal with them single-handed.

The Earl agreed to be available for visitors in the afternoon, but could not be distracted from his main purpose that morning, which was to drag Tavington in some place fairly private and get the complete details as to who little Thomas actually was. If he were a blood relative, as it appeared, Lord Colchester wanted to know exactly how the child was related to him.

"He's your son, isn't he?"

Tavington knew it would be foolish to lie. "Yes, he is."

"Not that I wouldn't like the lad for his own sake—fine little fellow as he is! But, really, Will my boy, when it is a question of one's own flesh and blood—"

"Yes—yes—Uncle, I understand you. I'll tell you everything."

Tavington did not intend to really tell his uncle _everything,_ but he would tell him enough of the truth to satisfy one so devoted to family. They were in the sunlit end of the library, far from eavesdroppers.

"The mother of Ash and Thomas was the young wife of Jane's father. Ashbury Rutledge was a rather appalling man. I know little of the facts of his marriage to Jane's mother, as she died bearing Jane. I do know he was quite unkind to Letty's mother, as he was to both of his daughters." There, that was the truth, if not quite the _whole_ truth. "When Ash was born, the father disinherited his daughters, which was of no great moment for Jane, since she inherited her mother's fortune. This young wife, Selina, is a cousin of Jane's, so Thomas is indeed her blood relation, if not her brother. I confess I had a brief connection with Mrs. Rutledge when I was first billeted at their plantation house. She was, I suppose, unhappy. These things happen."

His uncle was frowning at him, and Tavington shrugged. "I broke it off once Jane and I became engaged, but the damage was done. I don't think Rutledge ever suspected anything. It seems best to let sleeping dogs lie."

"I think your Jane is a very generous and dutiful wife to accept her husband's bastard in her own nursery! I hope you are cognizant of your good fortune."

"Indeed I am, Uncle. I—"

"And I hope you never put her good nature to such a test again! Of course, what could the girl do? The poor little fellow was here. It's not as if she was given a choice. You are very, very lucky, William. Many women would have insisted the boy be raised under another name, out in some distant cottage in another part of the kingdom—"

"I assure you, Uncle, I have expressed my profound thanks to Jane. She loves children, and has accepted Thomas as a part of our family. I still think passing him off as Ash's brother is for the best—"

"We'll see," interrupted his uncle, rather skeptically. "If the boy continues to resemble you as much as he does now, no one is likely to be fooled. And what about the lad? As he grows older he's bound to hear gossip and speculation. He's bound to wonder every time he looks in a mirror. I think you should tell him, when he's old enough to understand why you've been discreet about it."

It was quite cold, and the gentlemen went out only briefly for a walk to the stables to discuss their needed improvements. Lady Sarah went with them, careless of the hems of her habit. Lady Trumfleet did not appear until after eleven. Jane had seen her husband go out with the other men after nine. Trumfleet appeared contented to the point of smugness. Jane wondered how often he shared his lady's bed.

Protheroe felt he must return to London immediately, but Lucy would stay and return with her sisters on Monday. She came to Jane later in the morning wanting a private word.

"Jane—look!"

She showed Jane a lacquered jewelry box. Inside was a large brooch of amber and pearls, made in the shape of a grapevine. The pearls were arranged as bunches of grapes. The leaves were gold and green amber. The whole was set in pure and massy gold. It was a very unusual and artistic piece of jewelry, and Jane exclaimed over it in admiration.

"Yes, it's gorgeous," Lucy agreed. "And I love it. Sarah slipped it to me this morning with such kind words. I did not mean to sulk and pout until I got my way. How can I possibly keep it? My mother expressly meant it for Sarah. I hate to bother Edward over something he must think trivial."

"Family jewelry is never trivial," Jane affirmed stoutly. "There is a whole world of memory and meaning in every piece. It was very kind of Lady Sarah. You must allow people to be kind. When you and your sisters divide your mother's jewelry, you could set something nice aside for her then."

"I suppose so. She told me that she couldn't possibly keep the brooch after the way Anne went on last night: she would never be able to wear it or even look at it without feeling like a—'pig,' she said. Yes—she really said 'pig.'"

Jane laughed. "I do see her point. How could she find any pleasure in being party to keeping it from you, unless she were as malicious as her sister, or—" Jane stopped herself from commenting on Lady Cecily. "You must keep it and enjoy it. It would look lovely with your golden gown. Lady Sarah seems very amiable."

"Yes—we've never had much in common, but she has a good heart. All my uncle's children are so different. Sattersby is not so bad, either, when you spend time with him. He was just so bullied by Anne when we were children, and of course he was always terribly jealous of Will."

"That I gathered. 'The grass is always greener.' I suppose Lord Sattersby has never considered how little he might have enjoyed campaigning in the Carolina swamps to earn his living."

* * *

**Note:** There does seem to have been a fashion in the eighteenth and early nineteenth century of funerals being attended only by men. For example, Queen Victoria's mother, the Duchess of Kent, was not permitted to attend her husband's funeral. Obviously this custom did not last long among the Victorians, who loved nothing more than a good, morbid funeral. I have not been able to determine what exactly was the rationale behind the exclusion of women, and imagine that, however it was phrased, it probably had some reason behind it that we would find bizarre. The problem of having elaborate mourning costumes ready in two or three days I find as good a reason as any. 

Please review. It's my only reward, and it keeps me going.

**Next: Fortune's Fools **


	61. Fortune's Fools

**Chapter 61: Fortune's Fools **

They had not been back in London a week, settling into their life-after-Mamma, when they had an unexpected visitor. Tavington remembered Sir Edward Claypoole from his visit to Windsor, and more recently from the Prince of Wales' appearance at the ball. Amidst all the callers come to express sympathy, it was surprising to hear from someone so unconnected to them. They received a note, asking for the honor of calling on the family, saying it was a matter of business involving the late Lady Cecily, and requesting that all her children be present. John saw the note first, talked it over with Tavington, and then wrote back, suggesting a day and time. He immediately contacted Protheroe, asking that he and Lucy join them. It was certainly a mystery.

Sir Edward was shown into the drawing room, a graceful, discreet man, sleek as a weasel, his clothes exquisite, his wig immaculate; and it was clear from the first few minutes that he was here, not on his own behalf, but as an emissary from the Court.

"Your lady mother's service to the late Princess of Wales was recalled with such respect and fondness. Her Royal Highness deeply regretted Lady Cecily's departure from her service, and as a mark of her esteem, directed that a pension be paid her."

Caroline whispered her surprise to Penelope. The two brothers looked at each other in puzzlement.

"We know of no such pension," Tavington told Claypoole.

"Ah, yes. The matter was looked into on her death, for as you know, the pension would have ceased from that time. To our dismay, we discovered that it had never been paid. A shocking, regrettable lapse. There was a meeting on the matter, and it was decided to pay the arrearages in a lump sum to her children. I hope," Claypoole said, with a suave smile to Tavington, "that does not seem inequitable to you? We are aware that you were bequeathed your mother's monies, but in this special situation—are you prepared to accept a fifth, rather than the whole?"

Tavington looked at Jane, who remained tactfully silent. He said, "Of course I accept His Majesty's decision, and am happy to share what is, after all, a windfall with my brother and sisters. How much is the total?"

"Well," replied Sir Edward, his smile becoming positively brilliant, "as twenty years have passed since your mother left the post, and as the Princess intended her to have a thousand a year, it is a pleasant sum: twenty thousand pounds in all. That would be four thousand to each of Lady Cecily's children. I must ask again, Colonel Tavington, would you contest the division?"

Rather staggered, Tavington turned again to Jane. She blurted out, "I think it should be shared."

Jane was too dazed to think clearly. Such a huge sum! What a fortune for the children! For a moment she imagined doubling their investments, much increasing their income—the possibility of buying a property of their own—her boys never having to seek out professions. It was a dazzling prospect. She bit her lip. Her first remark should stand. Snatching at the entire amount would be greedy and divisive. The family might assent, but equally would resent it. Yes. This was best. After all, they would have four thousand pounds they had not expected. Moderation was the best course.

"Yes, "she repeated. "All of her children should share in this."

At once, Caroline and Penelope burst forth, dismissing any need for the money. "You and Lucy have children, Will. We really cannot claim that we need this money—"

"Need has nothing to do with it," John broke in briskly. "Whether you want to found a scholarship or fritter it away, we must all share equally, if we're to do anything but give it all to Will. Not that that would be wrong, mind you," he forced himself to say. He really wanted the four thousand pounds. He would put it in trust for Fanny at once. No matter what happened, she would be provided for. "Are you sure, Will? It's such a lot of money. Are you sure you won't regret this tomorrow?"

Tavington was not at all sure he was sure. If only Claypoole had approached him privately, and given him time to put his thoughts in order! Still, Jane was willing to share. Good relations with John and the girls were worth it.

"Yes," he declared, "I'm quite sure. It's something from Mamma for _all_ of us."

He gave Lucy a quick, tender glance. _Ha! Foiled your spite, Mamma! Lucy gets four thousand pounds, the amber brooch, and whatever else she likes from the jewels and gew-gaws. It should be a help to her. _His gaze traveled to Protheroe, who was sitting and listening with a very grave expression. A little more conversation followed: wonder that they had never heard of this; Sir Edward's commiseration on the incompetence of clerks; vain wishes from Caroline and Penelope that Mamma had been alive to receive such a signal mark of royal favor.

Sir Edward nodded affably to them all, and casually remarked, "His Majesty is always happy to see that his loyal subjects receive their just due. To the Privy Purse, a trifle: to his honor, everything. He has complete faith that you will continue to serve the Crown as you have always done."

"Yes, of course," replied John, rather nonplussed. "What else? It's a matter of principle, you see. Tavingtons have always been King's men."

"Just so," was the delighted answer. "The Court can always trust such individuals to be generous in their service; discreet about state secrets; forthcoming if they were to have access to anything that would harm the realm."

The Tavington siblings looked at one another. "Naturally," Tavington remarked, not quite understanding what Sir Edward was getting at. "That goes without saying." He laughed, somewhat self-consciously. "I hardly bore years of campaigning and near-mortal wounds in order to become a turncoat now."

"I am so glad to hear that," Sir Edward said, his smile becoming a little fixed. "I pray you will continue so. If something untoward were to come to your attention, I trust you would send me a note—discreetly, of course—there is no reason for family secrets to be spread abroad. You shall be receiving the sum—well—today, I believe. Gentlemen, ladies, adieu. Do not hesitate to call on me to serve you."

He was shown out, amid polite farewells and considerable confusion.

"You're very solemn, Protheroe," Tavington said to his brother-in-law. "You are not happy to receive four thousand pounds?"

"Four thousand pounds is a considerable sum," the attorney replied, forcing a smile. "I am certain we can all put ours to good use." He lowered his voice and murmured for Tavington's ears only. "We must speak more of this."

"You think there is something amiss here, don't you?"

Protheroe whispered urgently, "Do you really believe that if your mother thought she was due a pension, she would not have assailed the ear of everyone she knew to obtain it? Something _is_ wrong here. Lucy, my love," he called, seeing eyes turned their way, "I do need to go over some matters of business with your brothers. Would it be too rude to drag them away?"

"Rude and cruel!" laughed his wife.

"But Lucy, what a good time to go through Mamma's jewels!" cried Penelope.

"Yes, indeed," agreed Caroline. "We ought to see to it."

There was some faint embarrassment, and Jane said, "Don't mind me. I should enjoy the show, but I don't want anyone feeling awkward because I'm not included. You must remember that I inherited my own mother's jewels, and was never called upon to share them!"

The men fled, expressing horror at the prospect of being trapped in a room with women cooing over trinkets.

Lucy asked, "Is that poor Fabienne still here?"

"Yes," Caroline answered. "Will told her she could stay until the tenth of next month. That will give her time to dispose of Mamma's clothes as she sees fit, and find a new situation—or new lodgings. I gather that she is hoping with a few hundred pounds capital to go into business as a modiste, or to find a small house where she can let rooms. With that and her pension, she should be well provided for."

Fabienne was called, and the jewelry boxes were brought down, along with an inventory. The maid was pale, and dressed in deepest mourning. She gave them the boxes with a sniffle and a muttered,_"Hélas!_ _Ma pauvre Madame!"_ She was dismissed with a few kind words.

Jane saw no box matching the description of the one mentioned in the will. As they were opened in turn, she foresaw a long afternoon, for every piece had its anecdote, and some nostalgic tears were shed, remembering when their mother had worn this necklace or that lavaliere to such-and-such an assembly. Caroline showed them her mother's diamonds, now her own, and Penelope the pearls and sapphires. The volume of jewelry was considerable, and some pieces were completely unknown to them. The Tavington family diamonds were admired---mildly, for the settings were very old-fashioned--and put aside for John.

"We must select something nice for Sarah," Lucy told them. "She was so kind about the amber brooch."

Different items were examined and proposed: an emerald pendant, a diamond corsage-style brooch, a pair of pearl earrings with beautiful enamel work. An amazing cameo depicting St. George and the Dragon was Penelope's favorite.

"Sarah would like this. It has a horse on it."

They laughed. Jane supported the choice. "It's quite gorgeous, actually. Penelope's right—unless you choose the pendant. That's also quite unusual and lovely."

In the end, the cameo was chosen. Among the many jewel boxes there was a flat case of bronze, with Cupid and Psyche in relief

"What a beautiful box," Caroline cried. "What can be in it?"

Inside were a necklace and earrings of aquamarines and pearls, strung together on a triple gold chain. At each pale blue aquamarine the three chains were scalloped up, and a pearl drop suspended; and in the center, the largest stone was set in an elaborate gold mount inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and a triple pendant of pearls dangled from it. There was a matching ring: a big irregular pearl surrounded by aquamarines, which enclosed a roll of yellowed parchment.

"How lovely!" Lucy breathed. "Why did Mamma not wear these? I don't believe I have ever seen these jewels. Do you recognize them, Pen?"

"Not I. A pity. They would have matched Mamma's eyes perfectly."

"Here is a note," said Caroline, drawing the parchment from the ring. She read it, colored briefly, and then handed the box to Lucy. "I really think you should have these, Lucy dearest."

"How kind—but—"

"I really think you should." Caroline looked significantly at Penelope who looked back questioningly, and then blushed herself. Lucy looked briefly at the note, and sighed.

"Yes. I shall take these. They are lovely and obviously a treasured souvenir. Here, Jane, you might as well see this. There should be no secrets amongst the four of us."

_"Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part--" _

_Madam, ever your most devoted—_

_R_

"Very beautiful," said Jane, determined to be unembarrassed and prosaic. "And I think jewelry _ought_ to be worn, don't you?"

-----

"What's on your mind, Protheroe?" Sir John asked, when the three men were downstairs in the library with the door shut between them and the rest of the house.

"Didn't all of that sound—odd to you?" Protheroe asked in his turn. "Since when is a sizable pension forgotten, and then paid in a lump sum without dickering and petitions and delays?"

"You have a suspicious mind!" Sir John laughed.

"Well for me that I do!" Protheroe exclaimed earnestly.

"All right, then. You think Claypoole wanted something?" Tavington wondered.

Protheroe nodded slowly. "It's clear that this was a fishing expedition, and that the money is being given as a sort of _quid pro quo_. I doubt that there was such a pension, for it there were, it would have been in Her Royal Highness' will from 1771. At any rate—such a large sum of money, so convenient to divide amongst five! Something is wanted, but those who want it were not certain who amongst us has it. Perhaps there will be additional rewards for the one who delivers that which is desired. Do neither of you have any idea what it is the man was after?"

Tavington and John looked at each other and shook their heads. "No, not the least idea," answered Tavington.

"Are you _certain?_" Protheroe persisted. "It must be important, for such sums to be tossed about. Twenty thousand pounds is not a trifle, even for a king. And to do it through an intermediary—it even makes me wonder if the King himself is involved. He referred to state secrets, to things that would 'harm the realm.' Does anyone in your family possess anything that could be used against the Crown? Any love letters? State papers? Perhaps something pertaining to the Royal Family? He did use the term 'family secrets.'"

"The Duke of Cumberland, perhaps?" John wondered. "He's a dodgy fellow, but we're hardly on intimate terms. The only one of us who's ever had much dealing with the royals was Mamma, when she was Lady of the Bedchamber."

"That must be it," Protheroe muttered. "It must have involved Lady Cecily, somehow. Did your mother keep any letters or documents pertaining to the Royal Family?"

"We went through her papers pretty thoroughly—" Tavington began. Then he stopped, saying, "Good God."

"What?"

"She kept going on about a box. She said there was something important in it."

"The box mentioned in the will?"

"I suppose so. We haven't seen such a box. No one has. Who would even have heard of such a thing?"

Sir John snorted. "Really, Will. All London probably knows about the box. Mamma went on about it to the nurse, and perhaps she mentioned it to the other servants and her friends, and from there—"

"From there—" Tavington thought and became rather uncomfortable. "—from there it could have gone anywhere--Lady Cecily bragging about possessing state secrets. Surely they must know that she didn't have the box—or that it is lost—or mislaid."

Protheroe frowned. "Interested parties may know that _Lady Cecily_ did not have the box, but it was well known that her children had assumed care of her business affairs. Someone thinks one of you has it, and Sir Edward came to give you all an offering of good faith."

"I'd like to have a talk with Nurse Watkins." Tavington growled. "The girls wanted to pay her her last wages, but no one's seen her since the morning of the ball. Then that wretched Mrs. Venable came, just as we were all distracted—"

Sir John repressed a shudder. "I don't want to think what I'm thinking."

"—that the Venable woman was someone's agent, searching the house while we were all at the ball—" finished Tavington.

"Would not her maid, Mademoiselle Boulanger, have prevented her?"

Tavington remembered the smell in Mamma's room that dawn—the heavy stink of laudanum—the drowsy, stupefied Fabienne— _("Je me sens si malade! Je suis si fatiguée!") _"Not if she were drugged," he said, heavily. "I believe she was. That vile woman drugged the maid and then no doubt searched Mamma's rooms and questioned Mamma herself. It's possible the search of Jane's room was at her instigation. I shall ask Jane if she saw anything—Stay. The woman was breathing heavily when I burst into the room." He slammed his hand onto the chair arm. "The bloody bitch was watching in the hall. She must have run back to the room a step ahead of us, and was shamming sleep! And I was taken in by her!"

"I have friends among the magistrates," John said, indignant. "I can call them in and we can hunt down the woman!"

"I'm not sure that's at all a good idea," Protheroe cautioned them. "We do not know who the woman's principal was. It is clear she was not acting for herself. If we were discover that she had been employed by the highest in the land—"

Tavington felt rather sick at the idea. It was one thing give one's life for King and Country. It was quite another for King and Country to come and search his house, spy on his family, and harass his dying mother.

"—of course, " said Protheroe, continuing his thought, "we do not know it was the King or his friends. They are many others who would be interested in documents that would embarrass the royal family—not only political opponents at home, but agents of foreign powers."

The three men were silent a moment, thinking how very unpleasant this situation could become.

"We _must_ find the box," said Sir John. "We must speak to Nurse Watkins and then to all the servants."

"I must talk to Jane, too," Tavington muttered, thinking aloud. "She may have heard something we did not."

Protheroe considered the matter. "You should indeed search this house," he said, "but if the box and its contents are not here, you must consider where you else your mother might have secreted them. Could they be at Wargrave?"

"Unlikely," replied Tavington. "Mother did not like the place, and there would be too many opportunities for someone else to come upon them. She might have given him to that Grimsby fellow, her new lawyer."

"An excellent idea," agreed Protheroe. "Let us call upon him and see what he knows."

"And then, let's speak to Jane," Tavington said. "And then to Mamma's maid and that girl who cleaned her rooms."

"How much will you tell your wife?" asked John. "I don't want the women to be frightened."

"Jane has a stout heart," Tavington replied briefly. "She won't thank us for keeping her ignorant."

-----

Traylor Grimsby could not help them. He did not want to see them at all, since his chambers were in disarray.

"Thieves broke in last night," his clerk told them, trying to set the place to rights. "He's absolutely furious."

"Was anything taken?" Protheroe asked.

"We hardly know. Whoever did this went through the rooms like a whirlwind."

"Nonetheless," Tavington put in, "We really must see Mr. Grimsby. It relates to Lady Cecily's will, and cannot be delayed."

Grimsby was reluctant to take them into his inner sanctum, for there was scarcely a place to sit or move, with all the papers scattered. The intruders had been destructive, too: some cabinets were smashed, the doors hanging off the hinges.

"Sorry to trouble you Grimsby, when you're in such a bother," Sir John began, striking a friendly tone. "It's just that we're concerned about something our mother mentioned in her will. That box that she said had valuable papers. Ivory and ebony, from the description. Did she give you such a box to keep for her? We've none like it at the house."

Grimsby shook his head. "Lady Cecily entrusted nothing to me but her will. I know nothing of a box. What about you, Protheroe?" he asked, rather nastily. "You and your father were her lawyers for years. I would have thought you'd know about something like that."

Protheroe ignored the rudeness, considering that the man's affairs were in complete disorder. It would have put him out of temper, too. "I do not. We were hoping you could shed some light on the matter, since Lady Cecily was quite concerned about it in her last days."

"It might have been her mind wandering, if you'll forgive me for speaking of it."

"It could," agreed Tavington smoothly, "but we do have reason to believe that such a box exists—or at least, did exist at one time. If you know nothing of it, then we shall see ourselves out."

"Very sorry to trouble you with all this going on," Sir John apologized.

Grimsby looked at them a little longer, and said, "She left no box and no papers with me, other than the will itself. I shall certainly tell you if I hear anything of them." He looked about him, clearly considering the idea that their lost papers had something to do with the destruction of his chambers. There were grave farewells, and the three men left.

"That can't have been a coincidence," John muttered, once they were in the privacy of the carriage.

"Hardly," agreed Tavington, with weary sarcasm. "Protheroe, why don't you ask your father about this?"

"I shall, but remember that we had no professional dealings with your mother for over three years. Besides, I cannot imagine her giving something she valued so highly into someone else's keeping. If she had it, I truly believe it must be somewhere in the townhouse, since you think she would not have left anything at Wargrave. I shall ask my father, of course, if she might have left something with us. Surely, however, it would have been returned to her when we severed relations."

----

Jane was able to give them a few more puzzle pieces. Without sharing all their worst fears, the men told her that it was possible that the box their mother raved about might have had some basis in reality, and that they were trying to find out what had become of it.

"The night of the ball, Jane--" Tavington urged her. "—do you remember anything particular that was said when she broke in upon us?"

His wife frowned, thinking. "I told her I didn't have it. I asked if Fabienne had looked, and then I told her that it was too important to keep here in the house. That seemed reasonable to her. Oh!" she cried suddenly, "What about the box we gave Deborah Porter? Do you think that could be the one that is wanted?"

For a moment Tavington's heart leaped, hoping it could be true. John turned to him in excitement, but Tavington remembered the box and shook his head, "It cannot be the same. It was too small, and made only of wood." Glumly, he added, "And it was empty. A house so full of women is always going to have a clutter of trinket boxes."

Disappointed, John agreed. "And it must be bigger than an ordinary trinket box if it contains papers, I suppose."

Jane sighed. "It was just a guess."

Tavington rubbed his jaw in frustration. "Did you see anything—odd—as we were taking my mother back to her room?"

Jane suspected that there was more than met the eye here. "I saw a fluttering out of the corner of my eye. I was calling Caroline, and there was a shape—it was someone in the hall, wasn't it? Do you know who is was?"

"We think it must have been Mrs. Venable," Sir John told her, "but she was probably sent by someone else."

"This has something to do with the visit of Sir Edward Claypoole, doesn't it? He all but demanded that you turn over anything you possessed pertaining to the Royal Family."

The men sighed, and nodded.

"But," said Jane, "just because there was a box in times gone by, that does not mean that such an object exists today. The fact that your mother only spoke of it when her illness was much advanced argues that it might have disappeared long ago."

"All things considered," Protheroe told her gravely, "it might be best if we found it. Others are apparently searching for it."

"Mrs. Venable!" Jane said, bewildered. "But she brought a reference from Nurse Watkins—"

"Who has not been seen in over a week," Tavington observed, "despite the fact that we owe her money."

"Penelope may have her address," Jane suggested. "I believe she has a sister in Cheapside. Perhaps if we sent her a note—"

Protheroe shook his head. "It would be best if we went there and saw her for ourselves."

"And we should finish talking to the servants here," Tavington pointed out. "Let's talk to Mamma's maid and that little girl who cleaned the room."

Fabienne, who hated Mrs. Venable, could not tell them much, but when she was asked what she had eaten or drunk on the night of the ball, she leaped to her feet, screaming.

"Poison! I knew it! The wicked woman wished to rob Madame and put that poison in _mon souper. Ah, la mauvaise!"_

"We have reason to believe she was looking for that box Mamma went on about—it would have been made of ivory and ebony—we are not sure of the size. Did you ever see such an item?"

Fabienne had not, and was certain it had never been in Madame's room. It was difficult to calm her enough to hear the whole story, for she was terrified and disgusted at the idea of being drugged and lying helpless while Mrs. Venable pried into everything. Nothing appeared to have taken, she admitted, but it was horrible nonetheless.

Jenny, the little maid, was terrified to face three tall gentlemen, and whispered to the floor that she had already told the Colonel everything.

"Yes, child," agreed Tavington, "but that was the day before the funeral and I was distracted. I remember that you very kindly expressed your sympathy and then told me that my mother seemed peaceful, save for the bloody nose, and that there was no other blood."

"Yes, sir," said the girl, "that's right, just the bloody nose and that other."

"What other?" asked John.

"The pillow, Sir John," Jenny replied. "The underside of the pillow was bloody. No telling how it got there."

A gaping hole of silence followed. A few seconds was the only variation among her listeners. In the end, each head shot up in reaction to her words, as the hideous meaning became clear. No one said anything. No one wanted to say anything. Tavington roused himself to thank the little girl and dismiss her.

Finally, John choked out, "It may have been innocent. Perhaps the blood dripped from her nose to the pillow, and the nurse might have turned the pillow over to save our sisters distress. It would look cleaner."

"No," said Protheroe. "The Frenchwoman said nothing about blood on the pillow. We must ask her again to be certain, but she claimed to have found our mother first and there was nothing said about a bloody pillow."

"The upshot is," Tavington snarled, "we have reason to believe that our mother was murdered. If the King and his friends are behind this, justice may be impossible, and revenge beyond our reach."

"I refuse to believe that the King would order the murder of a woman." John shook his head decisively. "We have no evidence that the Venable creature was an agent of the Crown. And such a person—if Mamma had seen her sniffing about and had tried to raise a fuss, the woman might have just been trying to silence her—and went too far. Caro said she was quick to get out of the house the next day."

"—And I would deduce that she did not find what she was looking for, since there has been no scandal breathed abroad," Protheroe said.

"—And Grimsby's chambers were rifled afterwards," Tavington added. "Whatever the prize may be, someone is still on the hunt for it."

* * *

**Note:** Thanks to my reviewers! I appreciate your generous response to the last chapter. Special thanks to snarkypants, who brought up the box Tavington found in the attic for Deborah, so I could deal with it in this chapter. It was a good guess, and I admit one I had not considered. It would create a whole alternate plot, and one that could be fun. 

**Next: **_**The Stepdaughter** _


	62. The Stepdaughter

**Chapter 62: _The Stepdaughter_ **

A week passed. The search for Nurse Watkins proved futile. Both the nurse and her sister in Cheapside were gone, no one knew where. The servants could give no information about Mrs. Venable, who had not mixed with them at all, and had never given any personal information that would aid in locating her. The house in Mortimer Square had been searched from cellar to attic, and nothing had been found. Old Mr. Protheroe, when applied to, was sorry to inform them that he had never had such a box given to him by Lady Cecily. John reported seeing Sir Edward Claypoole at the House of Commons, and Tavington met with him one afternoon at Lord Fanshawe's. The equerry gave them reserved, secretive smiles, but did not approach them again. The ball, so to speak, was entirely in the Tavingtons' court.

There was nothing to be done but continue to live their lives. Crape still fluttered from the door of Number Twelve, Mortimer Square. The inhabitants would be in deep mourning until late July, a prospect dull and dreary to Jane. Such a long time in black! She would be thoroughly sick of it before long, but there was no help for it.

William's mood was rather odd. He was worried about his mother's mysterious box and the secrets within. Jane suspected that he had not told her everything, for he was quite insistent that she and his sisters were not to go walking alone, and when they traveled by carriage, to have a stout footman in attendance. When John announced his intention of going into Kent to ask for Mrs. Martingale's hand, William insisted on traveling with him, not in the curricle, but in the chaise-and-four with their valets, and an armed footman riding beside the coachman, and another at the back of the coach.

Jane forced herself to ask him outright, "Are you expecting an attack, William?"

He smiled, cheerfully loading his pistols, "Not if we keep a sharp lookout on those lonely roads near the marshes. See here, Jane, there's nothing wrong with being a bit careful. To that end, if you must go out to your sister's on Wednesday, I want Caro and Pen to go with you. I'd feel better if the three of you were together. I'd rather you were home before dark, and I've spoken to Rivers about locking up early. By the way, where's _your_ pistol?"

Wordlessly, she pointed to the wardrobe.

"Good. Take it with you when you are out. There shouldn't be any trouble, but it doesn't hurt to be a bit vigilant. By the way, John and I managed to scrape acquaintance at the Beefsteak Club with someone you ladies have all wanted to meet."

"Oh? Who?"

"Doctor Johnson! The man himself! It appears he's a friend of an acquaintance of a friend. John knows a publishing fellow he's had dealings with. We invited the both of them to dinner this Saturday after we're back from Kent. You might see if your sister wishes to come, too, though the Fanshawes are very engaged, I know."

"Doctor Johnson!" Jane cried. "Really! How exciting! Have you told Caroline? Oh, this is delightful!" She thought a little more. "I hope I can balance the table. I shall invite Lucy too! Let's see: Lucy and Edward, Caroline and Penelope, you and I, Letty and Lord Fanshawe, John, his publisher friend—what is his name?"

"Tregallon."

"—Mr. Tregallon, and _Doctor Johnson_. Just fancy! I cannot wait to tell Letty. We need another lady. I must think on it."

"Do. We shall be back in a few days, I pray successfully, but if the table lacks a lady, no matter. You and our sisters are sufficient to represent your sex!"

The brothers left early the following morning. Jane had a great deal to do. The Misses Tavington were delighted at the prospect of their dinner guest. Caroline was equally interested in meeting Mr. Tregallon. She disappeared into her room, and emerged for dinner that evening , looking triumphant.

"It's finished!"

"What is finished, dearest?" Penelope asked.

"_The Stepdaughterr!_ My novel! It is finished, even to the fair copy!"

"Oh, how wonderful!" Jane exclaimed. "Caroline, won't you let us read it?"

"Or read it to us as soon as we're done here?" Penelope suggested. "What an entertainment!"

Caroline did not resist the idea, and hurried through her meal so she could run up to her room and retrieve the manuscript.

Settling down into a sofa, cup of tea in hand, Jane waited expectantly, while Caroline laid the pile of paper in her lap, and began reading:

_The Stepdaughter: Or, The Domestic Tyrant Overthrown, by A Lady._

_Chapter One_

_One passes down any street in wealthy Westminster: in a carriage, in a chair, even, more humbly, on foot. One passes each door, not knowing the family behind this one or that. The doors themselves say nothing, save whether the dweller within is scrupulous as to the upkeep of the lantern above it prescribed by law. With the houses so same, and the doors so same, one is tempted to imagine the dwellers as equally uniform. But the door that separates the street from the happy newlywed couple could be mistaken for the door of the secret murderer, his hands newly washed of innocent blood. Every household behind those similar doors is unique, for every individual has his own story, and when those individuals combine, their household must be perforce a new story in the world._

_Some, one confesses, are more lively than other. For years our own family story had been pleasantly humdrum: a widowed father, a young daughter in his care— both very fond of one another. The reader hoping for sensation sighs, seeing nothing that will satisfy a craving for dark deeds and violent conflict. Another reader groans, fearing a sugary dose of homely philosophy, full of family affection and thread-bare moral lessons. Indeed for many years, we lived some such existence, knowing only the small rubs of common life. There were, indeed, disappointments when my father's affairs took him from me when I desired to display a new accomplishment; the occasional vexations of headaches or toothaches, which by natural law, must always take hold at inconvenient times. Having a good income, however, I knew no worse troubles, and thought our lives must continue in this same generally agreeable strain._

_Change,_ _however, is the law of life. I had not turned fifteen when I perceived a restlessness in my father..._

After an hour, Caro pleaded a sore throat, and received the compliments and applause of her listeners. Penelope was first with her praises.

"Oh, Caro! This is really excellent! I long to read the rest."

Jane agreed. "It's very good and interesting, Caroline, even allowing for family partiality. I especially like the characters of the old servants. The comic touches are very sure. You must get it published!"

With a blush, Caroline shrugged off their admiration. "We shall have to see what John's publisher friend says. I do confess that I really, really, long for publication, even anonymously. Writing has given me such pleasure."

"Do I have your permission to tell Letty—in confidence—about your writing?" Jane asked. "I may have a quiet word with her tomorrow. For that matter, William wants you to come with me. He is uneasy about leaving us all alone while he and Sir John are gone to Kent. It will be very pleasant, and I promise to say no more than you wish."

"I cannot object to you telling Lady Fanshawe. Indeed, she knows something about it, as she knew I was writing when she lived here. I hope she sings tomorrow."

"Oh!" cried Penelope. "So do I. I did like that aria from _Orpheus and Eurydice_ she sings. Her voice is so well-suited to the melancholy and pathetic. Dear Mr. Bellini told me that if she were not a lady, she could have sung professionally."

Jane tried to imagine Letty as an opera singer, living the rather disreputable life of a stage performer. She shrank from it, thinking how men might have taken advantage of her. Then she sighed, considering Lord Fanshawe, and how he took advantage himself of her sister's gentle, submissive nature. Beauty attracted all sorts of admirers, some of them very unpleasant. Lord Fanshawe, she knew, did not like her much. Sometimes she could glimpse, behind his old-fashioned courtliness, a desire for Jane to be gone from his presence.

Caroline was speaking to her.

"I am sorry, Caroline. I was miles away."

"I said, how is Lady Fanshawe? Do you think we shall find her well?"

Jane wished she could tell them about Letty's love letter from the Prince of Wales. Her sister had confided receiving a heated missive praying her to meet him in secret. Letty, very sensibly, had not replied, but had given the Prince's epistle to Lord Fanshawe at once. He had found it very funny.

"She was well enough on Monday. The worst seems to be over. She _tells_ me she is well, but when does Letty ever complain?"

-----

Letty did not complain of illness when they saw her. Instead she was happy to greet them, looking quite radiant: complexion crystal clear, eyes liquid and shining. Jane could never tire of looking at her. The room was as crowded as usual, but she was still reserved the place by her sister, as was their custom. Jane passed by Harmonia James, and spoke a greeting. She was surprised at the girl's angry, sulky expression.

"I thought Colonel Tavington was coming today." The girl said without preamble.

"The Colonel is with his brother in Kent," Jane replied, a trifle repressively. The girl scowled and threw herself into a chair, muttering about wastes of time. Jane ignored her bad manners, and decided to twit William about his adoring admirer when he returned home on Friday. In a moment she was at her sister's side.

"You look wonderful, dearest." Jane smiled teasingly, "You must be excited at the prospect of leaving off full mourning in another few weeks!"

"Is it terrible to admit that I am? I am so tired of black. I'm sorry that you must keep wearing it so long, but it does look nice on you. That's something."

"I suppose so. No doubt Lord Fanshawe is eager to order new half-mourning wardrobes for the both of you."

"Oh, yes! We are going leave off full mourning for Harmonia's ball the fifteenth of next month. We can wear half-mourning then, and Lord Fanshawe has decided that Harmonia's ball will be all silver and white: silver for his lordship and for me, and Harmonia all in snowy white. She should look very lovely in it. He has such plans for the ballroom, too. It will look like a fairy palace. He showed me some drawings he made. Lord Fanshawe is so talented."

Jane passed that by with a forced smile. It was so difficult to be polite about someone she disliked as much as her sister's husband. "I can well picture you in silver satin. Silver satin and diamonds. You will look mysterious and ethereal. Is the girl behaving herself?"

"She is better with Lord Fanshawe. I think she understands now that she must show him obedience and respect."

"And what about the obedience and respect she owes _you?"_

"Oh, sister!" Letty lowered her voice. "She does make an effort in Lord Fanshawe's presence. It makes meals much, much better, but I can see that it is hard for her. I try not to spend much time with her alone. I can't say _anything_ to her without making her angry or sullen. If I compliment her, she thinks I'm mocking her, and if I ask her to do something, I'm being cruel. And she hates it if I come into her room. She's so secretive. I think she keeps a journal and writes down everything horrible she thinks I do to her. She really does regard me as a wicked stepmother. Anyway, she's writing _something_ she doesn't want me to see!"

"Probably silly rubbish! Look at her, sulking because William isn't here! She's such a child! Enough of her--Letty, I hope you can dine with us this coming Saturday. Doctor Johnson himself will be there!"

Her sister looked quite blank for a moment, and then remembered. "The man who wrote that pretty book?" Jane had urged Letty to read _Rasselas,_ and Letty had enjoyed it very much, especially the exotic African setting. "Is he alive? It seems like so many famous authors are dead. But he is dining with you?"

"Yes! Caroline has always wanted to meet him properly. She admires his work so much." Jane lowered her voice, "She has finished the novel she was working on, and is going to have it published—anonymously, of course."

"But why anonymously? I'm so glad Miss Burney has admitted she wrote _Evelina._ I met her last week. She has written another novel, which will be published later this year. I hope Caroline's is a great success!"

"You did not tell me you met Miss Burney."

"Didn't I? I thought I had, but we were so busy on Monday with our lessons that it must have slipped my mind. She is very nice, and very clever. She has a very pleasant face. Mr. Bellini knows her father, Doctor Burney. He writes about the history of music and is very learned. But I liked Miss Burney. She could not come today, but I will invite her next week, and you shall meet her too. You are both clever, and I hope you will be friends. You need to be more known, and Caroline and Penelope, too. I am so happy to see them today."

Jane whispered, "William insisted that we go everywhere together. He is a little uneasy about us all, which is why he did not let his brother go to Kent alone."

"Why?" Letty wondered. "What is wrong?"

"I think it is that box Lady Cecily went on about. I told you—that box of 'ivory and ebony.' Apparently it must have contained important papers. Someone--we do not know whom-- is trying to lay his hands on them. William told me that Mr. Grimsby, Lady Cecily's lawyer, had his chambers searched, and of course you know about that Mrs. Venable."

"How frightening! But really, no one knows where these papers may be?"

"Sir John and William don't know, certainly. Now and then I feel that someone is watching me when I leave the house. William insisted I carry my pistol—"

"Do you have it—now?" Letty's eyes opened very wide.

"Oh, yes—William told me to take it everywhere."

"Please don't let anyone see—they might be startled."

"No, certainly not! But--dinner on Saturday?"

"I must ask Lord Fanshawe. I don't know—sometimes I think he feels I spend too much time with you. It sounds silly, but I think he is jealous."

No sooner was he mentioned, then Lord Fanshawe called Letty away, desiring her to sing for them. Bellini tore himself from a group of admiring ladies, and sat down to accompany Letty, with a discreet smile and nod for Jane.

Jane knew the song, of course, since they had all practiced it together the Monday before. She liked it very much, and thought Letty did the restrained anguish of the song full justice.

_Lascia ch'io pianga_

_mia cruda sorte,_

_e che sospiri la libertà._

_Il duolo infranga queste ritorte _

_de' miei martiri sol per pietà._

(Let me weep

my cruel fate,

and let me sigh for liberty.

May sorrow break these chains

of my sufferings, for pity's sake.)

There was great applause, and Letty was introduced to a new set of Fanshawe's acquaintances, just come from the country. Jane enjoyed watching her sister's charm conquer yet more of the _ton._ Lady Carteret sat down heavily beside Jane. Her skin was unhealthily transparent. Jane thought she gave the impression of having no blood left at all. Lady Carteret, however, was trying to be cheerful company.

"Your sister improves every time I hear her."

"I think so, too," Jane agreed. "How are you? I am very happy to see you."

"Oh, my dear Mrs. Tavington, I feel like a cow. I am dreadfully tired, and my arms are sore from all the bleedings. One wishes that this might be over soon. I am afraid that this is the last week I can be out in public." She whispered, "Lord Fanshawe always provides such glorious refreshments. I wish I might be permitted to partake of them."

"Do come to see me tomorrow. I promise that you will always be able to eat what you like under my roof."

"I'm not so sure. The Dowager has decided to move back in with us for my confinement. She goes everywhere with us now, and she is more and more influenced by Doctor Malahyde every day. She is quite unreasonable on the subject. Look, that is my mother-in-law, over there, talking with Sir Edward. That is Doctor Malahyde with her. He is quite her shadow."

The woman in question had a fierce face like an ancient, dewlapped bulldog. Her companion's features, in contrast, were delicate. Doctor Malahyde might be thirty, but no more. Some people might think him handsome, but Jane thought he looked both smug and predatory. His eyes were fixed the elderly Lady Carteret's flabby countenance, his expression shifting like wheat in the breeze, mirroring and flattering the moods of his patroness. Jane loathed him on sight, and could not think of anything better to say than, "Ah." The fact that the two of them were gobbling cake and sweetmeats in a particularly greedy way made Jane indignant on their victim's behalf.

"I shall introduce you, of course," said Lady Carteret. "I'm afraid that if I come tomorrow, she will come with me, and Doctor Malahyde, too"

"I shall have Caroline and Penelope distract them while you eat. It's ridiculous that that wretched doctor should starve you. Why doesn't he go back to Bath and prey on the invalids there?"

"Why should he, when Harry is giving him free food and lodgings, and a generous retainer as well? I hate him. The things he does to me—well--I've tried to make Harry send him away, but he just nods indulgently and tells me the doctor says that my whims are a symptom of my condition, and must not be indulged "for my own good. Of course," Lady Carteret added, with a touch of bitterness, "he would never disagree with his _mother_."

There was nothing for it, but to accept the introductions. Young Lady Carteret made them briefly, and then escaped to speak to someone else.

Jane had had years of practice, when living with her father, in the art of hiding her true feelings. Given a moment to prepare herself, she was certain her expression was as bland and neutral as she could wish, even when the doctor glanced at Jane's abdomen, obviously hoping for a new source of income. She tried not to look at the crumbs clinging to the dowager's mouth and expansive, painted bosom. The older Lady Carteret's words were civil enough, but she gave her condolences at Lady Cecily's death in a way that suggested that the two women had not been friends. Ordinarily, this would have been something of a recommendation to Jane's mind, but the old woman's subsequent fulsome praise of Doctor Malahyde's "genius" made it hard to Jane to find anything amiable about her. There was something else, too, in the woman's eye that suggested that she expected no good of Jane.

Hoping to avoid any unpleasantness, Jane asked, "Did you know Lady Cecily well?"

"Not very well, and not for some time. We saw one another at court years ago, when we both served the late Princess of Wales."

"I understood that Lady Cecily's service was comparatively brief."

"True." The dowager's mouth tightened with what Jane guess was disapproval. "With her husband's illness, of course—court life can be strenuous, far more work than anyone realizes—and one's time is hardly one's own. Then, too, one must know when to step back and give the royal family a moment of privacy—" Evidently feeling she had said too much, the woman stopped, and then said, "But of course, it was all a long time ago, and poor Lady Cecily is no more. Miss Penelope I know well, of course, from her work with the little foundlings. How young she and her sister look! I am very glad of it. One would never guess their true age."

"They are lovely, accomplished women, and I am so happy to find them delightful sisters," Jane agreed, irritated by such a very left-handed compliment.

"So you are the younger brother's wife?" the dowager considered, squinting at Jane. "I heard that he turned out very wild, but you know how rumor exaggerates! You were the one out in Essex at Wargrave Hall. I heard the place is entirely gone to wrack and ruin!"

"Hardly," Jane answered stiffly. "It is quite a splendid house, and I enjoyed helping Sir John refurbish it. The estate is quite in order—from the dairy to the schoolhouse to the drawing room!"

Here Doctor Malahyde felt it was a time for a compliment. "There is nothing more vital to the proper running of an estate than a lady's hand," he said, smirking at the elder Lady Carteret, to make certain she would understand whom he meant to praise. The woman preened a little, and then returned to the subject at hand.

"The school—isn't your schoolmaster that Strakes fellow?"

Warily, Jane replied, "Yes, Lady Carteret. Oliver Strakes is the schoolmaster at Wargrave."

"I hope you do not allow him to dine with the family. He has been a scandal since the day he was born!"

"Indeed," agreed her faithful shadow. "A dreadful blot on an honorable family."

"I know nothing of Mr. Strakes' family," Jane replied calmly, thinking that he was worth ten of this mean-spirited woman and her toady. The Dowager Lady Carteret, however, felt that Jane must be told all.

"I am sure you know—or perhaps you do not?—that he is the son of Lady Eleanor Ellesmere and a _footman! _Yes! It was not bad enough that a Duke's daughter formed a connection with a servant, but she actually married the creature! Of course, it all ended badly—just as one would expect. The manservant vanished, the young lady fell into a decline and perished, and her father supported the misbegotten boy through university. Then the Duke died and that was the end of pretensions of gentility for the child of such a misalliance. He is a village schoolteacher, and hardly deserves that!"

Jane could not understand why the dowager was so exercised about someone who could have no connection to her. Calmly, she said, "I hardly know Mr. Strakes. He is a very good teacher. My husband and Sir John think well of him."

This answer was obviously not the one Lady Carteret was hoping for. "I have little knowledge of the Colonies," the lady sneered, "but in England, we cherish good blood!"

Any number of things were on the tip of Jane's tongue: a wish that the woman would cherish her daughter-in-law's blood so as not to keep depriving her of it; a remark that Mr. Strakes apparently had ducal blood, and so was perhaps better bred than many in the room. Jane forced herself to simply raise her brows with an interested expression. What would these people say if they knew the genealogy of the Rutledges? Only Cousin Louisa, now deceased, had ever told Jane a believable story: believable because it was so very sordid. Like many other South Carolina planters, the Rutledges had come from Barbados. Red Tom Rutledge, the founder of the family, her great-great grandfather, had made his fortune as a pirate, and his "lady" had been an Irish girl sold into slavery to work the sugar fields. Jane had never told anyone—even William or Letty—the story. To anyone else it would sound degrading, but Jane was secretly proud of it, whenever she was reminded to think of it.

She was certainly not going to tell it to the Dowager Lady Carteret. She gave the woman a polite smirk, and then pretended she heard someone calling her. With a brief excuse, she slid through the mob and found the odious dowager's daughter-in-law. Lady Carteret was looking longingly at a plate of sandwiches. Jane told her briefly that she had been taken to task for insufficient attention to matters of blood. "Poor Mr. Strakes!"

"Oh! My dear Mrs. Tavington! You may wonder indeed why my Mamma-in-law would care, but—" she smiled naughtily and lowered her voice, "Mr. Strakes is her _cousin!_ Yes! His mother and hers were sisters! Harry has told her time and again that it would be better never to speak of the matter, but she cannot help herself. She has always felt humiliated by his very existence!"

"That's ridiculous!"

"Oh, I know, but she does so hate the thought of him! Her mother had a very bitter quarrel with Lady Eleanor over the elopement, and after the duke died, I believe she and her husband did everything possible to see that Mr. Strakes never received what his grandfather intended for him. Of course, the quarrel was passed on to my mother-in-law. Harry's father used to tease her about her relations 'below stairs.' She won't like you the better for being his patroness."

"I don't even think I could call myself that. Sir John is his employer, not I."

"Nonetheless—Oh, look! Mr. Bellini has caught their attention! Would you consider interposing yourself between their line of sight and the sandwiches?"

With a laugh, Jane rose and positioned herself so as to screen her friend from her mother-in-law's spying eyes.

"Delicious! I haven't had anything but gruel since Sunday. Doctor Malahyde allowed me butter on my toast for the Sabbath. I wish I could take the cress sandwiches home. I am so starved for anything green."

Jane's eyes were on young Lady Carteret, and her artless pleasure in some forbidden food. Lady Carteret's, eyes, unfortunately, were on the food itself. Neither was prepared for the squawk of outrage when their conspiracy was unmasked.

"Doctor! Come at once! Mary has been eating _chicken!"_

The dowager's piercing shriek cut through the noise of talk, and drew every eye to them. There was a hush. Necks craned to see what the matter was. Lady Carteret paused, caught red-handed with a bite half-way to her lips. Jane nearly jumped, so startled was she by the dowager's shrill anger.

"Mary! You wicked girl! You will have to be purged! Purged most rigorously! Is that not right, Doctor? Will she not require purging?"

"Indeed," the smug little man nodded in satisfaction. "A complete purge to balance her humors, and a bleeding as well. Lady Carteret, I am grieved that you would endanger yourself by forgetting your condition."

"—I didn't forget my condition! I simply had a sandwich!"

"—And you!" The dowager whirled on Jane. "Mary is such a good, obedient girl. I am certain you tempted her—forced her to eat! Come, Mary! We must leave. You are not safe with _friends_ such as Mrs. Tavington!"

Jane felt her face grow hot. She had been utterly unprepared for such an attack. "If Lady Carteret wishes to eat, it is hardly my place to deny her! I tempt _her_? You might as well blame Lord Fanshawe's cook!"

Lord Fanshawe's amused smile faded, and was replaced with an expression of great offence. The Dowager Lady Carteret, however, was not done castigating Jane.

"I thank God Miss James had the decency to tell me what was going on! She says that at your home you stuff Mary with all sort of unwholesome things—fruits and sandwiches and even milk in her tea! If Mary dies in childbirth it will be upon your head!"

Doctor Malahyde nods were so fervent, Jane wondered if his head would roll off.

"You never said a truer word, Madam. Young Lady Carteret's blood will be full of choler after such rich, heavy foods. She must be bled directly, and put on the strictest diet of water gruel!"

Lady Carteret groaned aloud in despair, and threw a look of apology to Jane. "I am so sorry! None of this is your fault. Mamma, you are unjust to Mrs. Tavington! It is I who took the wretched sandwich! I wish I had never seen it!"

"Don't worry, my dear," answered her mother-in-law, "I shall take good care that you do not see one again!"

They left then, in unseemly haste, only bowing to Lord and Lady Fanshawe. Letty was completely stunned by the outburst. Lord Fanshawe bowed coldly in return, clearly angry that his pleasant salon had been disrupted by such a vulgar scene. His expression smoothed in a moment, however, and he began talking to a group of friends about another matter. Letty would have gone to Jane, but her husband drew her to his side, and place her hand firmly on his arm. Caroline and Penelope came to Jane's rescue instead.

There was some laughter. At first Jane felt it was directed at her, but it was soon clear that the other guests had found Lady Carteret's antics absurd.

One lady, fighting a fit of giggles, told Jane that it was noised abroad that the Doctor Malahyde was more that the dowager's physician. "One gathers that his attentions are most assiduous both _day and night_, my dear Mrs. Tavington!"

Jane managed a smile, but she was nonetheless embarrassed and shocked. In reply, she said, "I care nothing for myself, but such a fraud can do young Lady Carteret great harm. I am very fond of her, and his prescribed treatment defies all sense and reason!"

Caroline agreed, "I am entirely of Mrs. Tavington's opinion. One of these days we will no doubt hear that Doctor Malahyde is before the magistrates as a charlatan."

"I hope that day is soon," Jane replied tartly, "or it may be too late for Lady Carteret!"

Her eyes sought out Harmonia James, who was looking very satisfied with herself.

"That spiteful little tell-tale!" Jane hissed.

"Oh, Jane!" Penelope said sorrowfully, "She is so young. She does not understand the mischief she may have done."

"She is nearly seventeen! She _ought_ to understand! When I was seventeen I was managing my father's household, not mincing about, gossiping like a schoolgirl! That was cruel and malicious!"

Harmonia heard Jane's indignant words. She tossed her head when Jane's eyes met hers. Jane glared at her until the girl turned red and looked away. Of more moment to Jane was Letty. Her sister appeared very distressed. Jane excused herself and began to move to join her.

Before she could reach her, she found her path blocked by Lord Fanshawe, who detached himself from Letty and demanded Jane's attention with the smoothest of bows.

"Mrs. Tavington, if I might have the honor of a private word?"

Mystified, Jane accompanied her brother-in-law to an adjoining room. Once there, Lord Fanshawe turned on her with smiling menace.

"Do you imagine that I invite the cream of the London _ton_ in order to be made a fool of in my own house?"

Jane caught her breath, "No one thinks—"

"It was clear _you_ did not. You will be so good as not to insult my guests or provoke them into acts of rank disobedience. Perhaps it is time for you to wend your way home."

"Are you asking me to leave?" Jane faltered, horror-struck.

"Indeed, Madam," Fanshawe bowed again, with a satisfied smile. "I pray your pardon, but it is clear that your presence is disruptive, your manners unequal to the level of the _ton._ I do not wish you to adversely influence Lady Fanshawe, who is devoted to you, however incomprehensible I find the idea of you evoking that sentiment in anyone. Perhaps it is best if you depart and remain separate from Lady Fanshawe in future. She has my ward as companion, so there is no reason at all for you to intrude yourself in her affairs. Do go, I pray you." He bowed again. "I would not want to distress you with the companionship of my footmen on the way out."

"How dare you!" Jane hissed, furious. "I have never been so insulted! You think your manners very grand, but I do not. You have been looking for a pretext to separate me from Letty ever since you tricked and deceived your way to marrying her."

Fanshawe smiled down at her with contempt. "I do not need a pretext to command what is mine. Today was simply the last straw."

"You will regret this," Jane told him flatly.

"What are you going to do, Mrs. Tavington?" he asked with polite incredulity. "Shoot me?"

Jane stared at him and thought about the pistol in her pocket. She stared just long enough that Fanshawe's smiled turned faintly uneasy.

"No," she finally answered. "but you are making a grave mistake. Do you think that that spiteful little schoolgirl is a satisfactory companion for my sweet and gentle sister? You are a fool—" she said, savoring the insult and enjoying the twitch in the painted wrinkles about the peer's mouth—"you are a_ fool_ if you so deceive yourself. Letty will be lonely and wretched, and you will find that if you make you captive bird unhappy enough, she may no longer sing at your command. You are a cruel and selfish old man, and I pray you do not harm my sister while she is in a condition to need all those who truly love her."

Fanshawe smiled again. "If that is all you have to say, perhaps you would do me the honor of leaving without delay. My footmen can be impatient. I believe the Misses Tavington would benefit from an early departure as well."

Jane turned her back on him in disgust, and swept back into the drawing room. She shouldered guests aside, a step ahead of Fanshawe. Letty was a few yards away, looking at her in confusion and dismay. Jane seized her hands in her own.

"Lord Fanshawe has ordered me to leave, Letty, I must go, but know that I love you. Never doubt it!"

Clad in superb livery, a pack of muscular servants were striding into the room. Jane flung her arms about Letty and kissed her. "Never doubt it, my dearest, dearest sister!"

There was a swirl of confusion. Jane felt her arms seized with confident strength as she was spirited out the door and manhandled to the top of the stairs. Penelope cried out with fright, and there were exclamations and raised, bewildered voices. Suddenly, Jane felt her arm released, and looked up to see Bellini, eyes bulging with indignation, give a tall footman a shove that made the servant stumble back.

"Enough!" he shouted. "Go back to your master, all of you! I shall escort these ladies from the premises. Come, ladies, come," he said, his bass voice softening to a comforting rumble. "I will have a carriage called, and see that you are placed safely within. Do not be alarmed."

"What is going on?" Caroline cried. "Has Lord Fanshawe gone mad?"

"It is because of me," Jane told her, putting her arm around her waist, as Bellini walked them downstairs. "Lord Fanshawe is tired of my influence on Letty and seized the altercation as an excuse to be rid of me. I am sorry that he chose to be rude to you as well!"

"What a horrible man," Penelope managed, unable to believe she had been just thrown out of a tea party. "Whatever will William and John say?"

Jane wondered herself. They reached the hall. The butler at the door did not look at them, his face as if carved from living stone.

Bellini told him, "These ladies require a carriage. Have one called for them."

Stolidly, the handsome butler answered, "Got no orders to call for any carriage. His lordship will have my ears if I leave the house."

"_Buffone!"_ Bellini snarled. The women were hustled into cloaks and hats with awkward speed. Penelope's hat was backwards, until Bellini himself righted it. The door was opened, and they were outside in the stiff wind of February. Bellini stepped out into the street and whistled down a hack carriage. It was small, and the three ladies had to crowd together, but it was a means of escape. Penelope had started to cry with embarrassment. Caroline was white and shaky. Jane felt sick herself, and longed to be alone in her own room. Before Bellini could shut the carriage door, however, she leaned out to speak to him.

"Thank you with all my heart, Signor," she said, pressing his hand. "You are a true gentleman- _un vero gentiluomo!"_

He smiled at her faulty accent, but affectionately. "It is my honor to serve you."

"I fear that this is the end of my Italian lessons here. I hope it is not to be the end of our friendship. I beg you to come tomorrow, if you can. However," she said, cutting off his assurances, "if you are made to choose between Lady Fanshawe and myself, choose her, I beg you! She will need a loyal friend so badly!"

He bowed, very grandly, hand on heart. "Signora, no one chooses Orazio Bellini's friends but Orazio Bellini himself! Fear nothing!" To the driver he shouted, "Number Twelve, Mortimer Square, and quickly!"

He stood waving at them, as they drove away, a gallant wave, fit for an opera stage. Jane smiled at his bravado, and then remembered that she had just lost her sister. Shockingly, crushingly, grief overwhelmed her, and she cried aloud in pain. "Oh, Letty! What will become of you?"

-----

**Notes:** Fanny Burney's second novel, _Cecilia,_ was published in 1782. It's my favorite of her works. Fanny Burney may have influenced Jane Austen, but I think her novels are much more like Dickens'. She includes characters from all classes, and the books themselves are very dark in places. The heroine invariably faces a hostile and judgmental world with little or no support. Some people like to sneer at "lady novelists" of the period, but Fanny Burney had a great deal to say about the problems women faced in her time, and often she said it well.

The aria is from _Rinaldo,_ by George Frederick Handel. I love it. Try to find the recording by Cecilia Bartoli. It's also sung in the movie _Farinelli._

The story of the Irish slaves on the island of Barbados is a very interesting one, but not one I have time to go into here. Many of their descendants remain on the island.

**Next:** **"And Let Me Sigh for Liberty—"**


	63. And Let Me Sigh for Liberty

**Chapter 63: "And Let Me Sigh for Liberty—" **

Too numb and grief-stricken to do much of anything, Jane had never thought time passed so slowly. She needed William to comfort her. Even the lack of Moll was painful. To Jane's relief, the Tavington brothers returned on Friday afternoon safe and well, and in great spirits. Jane hated to give them her news when they both looked so happy. John beamed at her, as if he had never been so glad to see anyone, and then rushed off to find his sisters upstairs.

"I can see that John's proposal was a success."

"Oh, entirely. Mind you, the Clarkes were taken completely by surprise. It never occurred to them that John would actually ask for their daughter—penniless as she is, and with a child to boot. I think Mrs. Clarke had a few regrets—she is a fond grandmother, and Mrs. Martingale's marriage must mean she will see less of the child. They were not favorably disposed for the marriage to take place in May—only half a year since the husband's death. John had to do some convincing, and Mrs. Martingale joined in. She had not seen her husband in years and evidently felt it was absurd to put off the marriage out of regard for one who had so little regard for her."

"Very sensible. She is right---life is too short to heed the gossip of strangers. The Clarkes sound like very good people. I hope John invites them often to town—and even to Wargrave. I should like to know them. A fond grandmother would be a refreshing addition to the family! Did John talk about finding a house in town?"

Tavington laughed. "He nearly talked my ear off on the subject. He knows an agent, and will begin his search directly. Actually, Jane, John was wondering if _we_ could invite Mrs. Martingale for a week or two, so she can look about and give her opinion."

Jane forced herself to smile, though she was near bursting into tears. "What a lovely idea! That will give us all a chance to become acquainted. I wish you had brought her back with you—stay—that would not have been quite—"

"Hardly!" he laughed again. "No doubt John would have enjoyed it. I supposed John can take one of the girls with him when goes to collect her. I hope all of this nonsense will have blown over by then."

"Did anyone trouble you—I mean—"

"Were we ambushed? No. However, we were followed. It was quite obvious on such lonely stretches of roads. I hope the spies found it interesting, since it was clearly nothing to do with my mother. They left us alone after the second day. Have you noticed anyone lounging about the square?'

"No—but I have only been out to Letty's--" At the mention of her sister's name, the suppressed tears burst forth, and Jane fell into the chair, crying in earnest.

"Jane! Are you all right? Is Letty ill?"

"Oh, William! Everything's gone to pieces!"

-----

She was walking on eggshells.

Letty had spent the last two days bewildered and miserable. She knew that Lord Fanshawe did not like her sister—had never liked her sister. He had tolerated her up to a certain point, but he was too accustomed to living exactly as he liked to endure an unwanted irritant in his life forever.

When she had been a slave in South Carolina, Letty had seen it more times than she could count. A slave irritated a master—or mistress. They were too slow understanding, too slow obeying, they were not pretty enough, or too pretty. Their hands were too cold, or the mistress' hair was not arranged right, or their laugh was annoying. Sometimes, they were pushed beyond human endurance and showed defiance. The end was always the same: brutal punishment, and generally the unhappy slave vanished. They were sold away, sold to the rice fields or the indigo manufactories, to the brothels, to the ships that carried them away from their families to Jamaica or Barbados, where they would live out the remainder of their lives cutting sugar cane or boiling it down in the huge vats.

Sometimes they were killed outright. Letty had seen it. If a slave was accused of a crime in Charlestown, his only hope was to confess and plead for mercy. It was useless to plead innocence—masters always took that as proof that you were "hardened." There was nothing to be done if you witnessed another slave's punishment, except to watch in silence as they were whipped to death, or hanged, or disemboweled. If you were not perfectly docile, then masters would start looking at you the way they did at troublemakers: in a way that told you your days were numbered.

And so, Letty had seen Jane swept away and cast out of the house without daring to protest. What good would it do? Her heart was breaking, but she was afraid to show it. Silently, she saw the guests off. Silently, she ate her nice dinner, and answered the guests who spoke to her with careful politeness. She could not think of anything clever or amusing to say. She avoided Lord Fanshawe's eyes, afraid that he would see protest or repining and punish her. Her face must be the same blank mask she had always worn as a slave when with anyone but Jane. He had told her that she was not to see or communicate with her sister in future. Mrs. Tavington had displeased him: she was not the companion for Lady Fanshawe that he desired.

_Oh, what did she say to_ _make Lord Fanshawe so angry? I can't recall. If only she would apologize for whatever it was that upset him._

Yes. Surely if Jane apologized to Lord Fanshawe, he would forgive her. She wrote such good letters. If she wrote an apology to Lord Fanshawe, and if he could be prevailed upon to read it, perhaps Letty could see Jane. She had hated Thursday, missing the surroundings of Number Twelve, Mortimer Place, and the women she knew best in England. Instead, Lord Fanshawe had taken her and Harmonia to visit Lady Melbourne, a handsome, cold-eyed woman, who sat by Lord Fanshawe and whispered in his ear for nearly an hour. Letty had sat by Harmonia, neither of them speaking to the other, only speaking when spoken to. Harmonia fidgeted and sulked, but no one paid any attention to her. Letty's stomach roiled with resentment. Harmonia had been self-satisfied at dinner on Wednesday, but her preenings and posturings had trailed off, as they were met by silence from Letty and utter indifference from Lord Fanshawe.

He had briefly related the news contained in a note from Lord Carteret. His lordship, his wife, and his mother were all leaving for the country, where Lady Carteret could be kept from harmful influences and interference. They thought it best that Lady Carteret not excite herself by sending or receiving letters. Letty listened to the news impassively, not daring to allow herself to fully feel the misery of losing this friend, too. Masters could do as they liked, and Lady Carteret was no more free to protect herself than Letty.

She submitted without comment to all the demands Lord Fanshawe made on her those nights. Her maids studied her anxiously. She could not quite manage to smile and talk normally—she was too miserable and frightened. It was all she could do to answer when they asked her for her preferences for hair or jewels. She did not know quite what to say. She was not sure if a slave had any right to such preferences. Later, the odd positions were welcome, as she thought it was best her face was turned away, while Lord Fanshawe took his pleasure from her.

Friday passed, as Letty struggled to keep her countenance. If a letter had come from Jane, Letty did not know of it. She endured fittings for the amazing gown she would wear for Harmonia's ball. She entertained a group of old gentlemen, friends of her husband. Nothing much was required of her, other than to look beautiful and be magnificently dressed, to smile when spoken to, and to nod agreement. So far, her husband's wrath had not fallen on her head. Another dinner, this time at Lord Maldon's. She thought the man a rake and a wastrel, but no hint of her contempt was discernible to an onlooker. At least Harmonia did not yet dine out with them, and so Letty was spared the presence of the one who seemed responsible for the disaster.

Lord Fanshawe did not require her services in his bed that night, which was a blessed relief to Letty. Until he had banished Jane, she had been willing enough to do her duty. Now that he had behaved like any other master, capricious and exacting, she saw no reason to respect him in her heart. She allowed the maids to brush out her hair, and clothe her in her a fresh silk shift for the night, and then she huddled in her bed with a single candle beside her, her worn copy of _The Governess_ her escape from a hostile world.

_"…Miss Jenny endeavoured to dry up her tears, and then said, 'Although I cannot but be pleased, my dear companions, at every mark of your affection for me; yet I beg that you would not give me the pain to see that I make so many dear friends unhappy. Let us submit cheerfully to this separation (which, believe me, is as deeply felt by me as any of you) because it is our duty so to do; and let me entreat you to be comforted'… Miss Jenny's friends could not answer her but by sobs and tears; only little Polly Suckling, running to her, clung about her neck, and cried, 'Indeed, indeed, Miss Jenny, you must not go; I shall break my heart, if I lose you: sure we shan't, nor we can't, be half so happy, when you are gone, though our governess was ten times better to us than she is.'_

_It was with the utmost difficulty, that Miss Jenny refrained from shedding tear for tear with her kind companions; but as it was her constant maxim to partake with her friends all her pleasure, and to confine her sorrows as much as possible within her own bosom, she chose rather to endeavour, by her own cheerfulness and innocent talk, to steal insensibly from the bosoms of her little companions half their sorrow; and they begin to appear tolerably easy…"_

She nodded over the book, and then fell into a deep sleep. Julie Maupin peered around the door, and came and gathered up the novel from the satin coverlet, where Letty had dropped it.

Madame was very unhappy. Julie and Veronique discussed it, in the privacy of the little room they shared. Their sweet Madame was in too much awe of Monsieur _le Vicomte_ to say anything, but they had seen the light leave her eyes, and seen her face turn to stone. Monsieur was _exigeant,_ he was not courteous in the way he had driven Madame's plain but clever sister from the house. Such folly over a miserable sandwich! They considered what they could and could not do, and came to no conclusion, other than to stay with Madame, and see what developed. They agreed that they were Madame's servants, not the old _Vicomte's,_ and their loyalty must be to her.

-----

"Sir John Tavington and Colonel Tavington to see you, my lord."

"Show them into my private study, Dunner."

Not an unexpected event. The Tavington brothers were bound to be offended at the treatment of their ladies. No matter. There was nothing they could do about it, as Fanshawe intended to make clear to them.

"Ah, gentlemen," he said breezily, as he entered. The two tall men were standing before that lovely pair of Tanagra figurines, muttering together.

"Fanshawe," answered Sir John, looking rather grim. Tavington said nothing as the two brothers bowed, and merely eyed Fanshawe with frigid menace.

"And how may I serve you?"

"You might explain what caused you to treat Mrs. Tavington and my sisters in such a way!" John answered at once.

"I _might,"_ agreed Fanshawe equably, "but I see no need to do so. A man's home is his castle, and one is always free to eject those whose presence is unwelcome."

"It was _cowardly, _and _crude,_ and unbecoming any man who claims to be a gentleman," Tavington drawled slowly, blue fires still under control.

"And ridiculous, too!" interjected John. "Such a to-do about a woman taking a sandwich! A man shouldn't quarrel over such a petty thing"

"Yes," smiled Fanshawe, "The immediate cause itself was a small matter, perhaps. I do regret not having made myself clearer beforehand. One lets these things go until they are simply intolerable. Mrs. Tavington colluded in a childish trick that disrupted my salon and resulted in the departure of one I consider a friend. Lady Fanshawe, too, is now deprived of a lady I considered a suitable companion. Not satisfied with that, Mrs. Tavington was uncivil to the Dowager Lady Carteret."

John answered hotly, "Old Lady Carteret is a damned fool and a nasty piece of work!"

"Oh my!" laughed Fanshawe. "_That_ was rude. See how easy it is? The dowager, however, is a woman of noble birth, which confers certain privileges of which Mrs. Tavington appears ignorant. It was a distasteful scene, and one I will not permit repeated. It was time for her to go and cease interfering in my domestic life. Obviously, I could not send her away unaccompanied, thus the unfortunate inclusion of your sisters. I do regret any inconvenience to them, but what is done is done, and as far as I am concerned, so ends any connection between our two families."

"Not quite," Tavington growled. He approached Fanshawe and fixed the peer with a long gaze. "You insulted my wife and my sisters. It is always a man's duty to demand satisfaction. In this case, my lord, it would be—a real pleasure."

"Dear me!" cried Lord Fanshawe. "Are you calling me out? How frightening! The famed Colonel Tavington, hero of the American War, the "Butcher of the Carolinas"—I know perhaps more than you are aware of your exploits—is going to challenge a old man of seventy-two? How _will_ that appear to the world? It won't do, Colonel. I will not meet you."

Tavington eyes blazed. "Then I shall name you a coward before all the world!"

"Do that, if it pleases you. What you don't understand, gentlemen, is that I really don't _care_ what the world thinks. You do, however. Consider yourselves fortunate that I am not so stupid as to accept a challenge that would quite possibly destroy your futures. Now, if that is all, I must be at my tailor's in half an hour. Dunner will show you out."

Tavington snarled, and seized Fanshawe by his coat, his fingernails scoring the lush velvet. "I should thrash you like a dog!"

John caught at his brother's hands. "Don't Will. It's what he wants. Let go, old fellow." After a moment, Tavington loosened his grip, and stepped back, glaring at Fanshawe with loathing.

"Thank you, Sir John," replied Fanshawe, smoothing himself back into elegance. "That was very wise of you. I do not doubt, Colonel, that you could best me at fisticuffs—at any sort of brutal, mindless violence--just as I did not doubt that your wife could have shot me down the other day. I believe the thought actually crossed her mind, and it is likely that she was carrying her preferred weapon. Such a bloody-minded pair, the two of you. Not at all the sort of persons fit to associate with Lady Fanshawe. Do go, before this charade escalates, and all of us find ourselves in tiresome difficulties."

"Let's go, Will," John said giving his brother's sleeve a tug. "This is useless."

"If I hear you have harmed Letty," growled Tavington, as a parting shot, deliberately using her Christian name, "I shall hunt you down and kill you, whatever the consequences."

"Indeed, I would thoroughly deserve it," agreed Lord Fanshawe, with a graceful bow. "As that is hardly likely, pray save your breath. Lady Fanshawe is very well, by the way, and has uttered not a word of protest since Mrs. Tavington's abrupt departure."

----- 

The Tavington brothers went home directly after seeing Fanshawe, to give their ladies the unsatisfactory news. They went out again soon after, telling their friends and associates at their clubs, at the House of Commons, and at Horse Guards about Fanshawe's outrageous behavior.

"It is pointless to keep it quiet, Will." John said, thinking it over. "The insult was so public and egregious that our answer must be equally so. If we don't speak up, people may think that Fanshawe had some sort of justification for his conduct. I'm going to tell everyone I know, and I'm going to mention it at dinner tonight. You'd do well to do the same. Tell all your officer friends that the blackguard refused to meet you. He says he doesn't care what people think, but I can't entirely believe that."

"You're right." Tavington was determined to make the old scoundrel as uncomfortable as possible as he could without doing anything that might injure Letty. Jane was terribly concerned about Letty, and had cried herself to sleep last night. Caro and Pen were humiliated and miserable, but were improving after a perfect storm of notes and visits from well-wishers. The gossip about Lord Fanshawe's disgraceful treatment of the Tavington ladies was in every ear, and the additional news that Colonel Tavington had challenged the peer, and that the challenge had been refused, would soon add fuel to the fire. The two brothers spent a pleasantly angry afternoon, denouncing Fanshawe as a damnable poltroon, and a stupid old villain, jealous of the two sisters' mutual affection.

Opinion was generally against Lord Fanshawe. He had behaved very badly, and some, who had thought his marriage a sign that he intended a more reputable life than had been his wont, decided to quietly withdraw from his acquaintance. A few could not quite blame him for refusing the challenge, on the grounds of the great imbalance of years and skill between the two adversaries. These voices were dismissed by others, who remarked that if Lord Fanshawe did not wish to fight, he ought equally to refrain from insulting ladies.

Rumors branched out from the stem of gossip, more fanciful but more intriguing: the quarrel was really over the beautiful Lady Fanshawe, for whom Colonel Tavington cherished a secret passion; the quarrel concerned Lord Fanshawe's ward, whom some suspected of a_tendresse_ for the handsome Tavington. The story was settling into a long run of delightful speculation, and promised to last the Season, or until some juicier scandal were to supercede it.

There was still the dinner to arrange, of course. Jane was in low spirits, but knew that she must not let the rest of the family down because of them. After a hasty consultation on Thursday, the lost Fanshawes had been replaced by some newer acquaintances with literary pretensions, with Sir Joshua Reynolds, with Bellini—to whom Jane wished to show gratitude and attention--and with an acquaintance of Caroline's, Mrs. Montagu, a noted member of the Bluestocking circle. The dinner was ordered, the table decorated, the house made welcoming for the distinguished guests. Jane looked on her work, and it was good, but her heart still ached for her sister.

It really was very trying to attempt to be a cheerful hostess, especially when the guest of honor was putting her off her own dinner. Doctor Johnson, however sublime the words he put to paper, was distressingly coarse in the too, too solid flesh. Rather than dining, he attacked the food, as if fearing it would be snatched from him. He sucked down his soup like a water closet drain. Little gobbets dropped from his moist, full lips. He chewed noisily, his mouth horribly open. Jane took to looking at him only after he had taken a sip from his wineglass. He sat back, hands on his swollen belly, brow knit in thought. She was glad such a great man had dined at her table, if only because he seemed to relish a good meal. Caroline and Penelope, bless them, kept up the flow of talk, encouraging the Doctor to begin again as soon as he fell silent.

"—and then I said, 'Sir, I perceive you are a vile Whig--'"

The table laughed appreciatively. Jane gave her best, most practiced smile, hardly hearing the flow of wit. She saw that the guests were helped to the best of the fish and chicken, to the most curious and delicious of the fruits and puddings, to the finest wines. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, which was as it should be. She was not. She felt herself outside the circle of diners, separated from them by anxiety for her sister. The dinner lasted very nearly forever, and when the ladies withdrew, the men sat long over the wine and talk.

Naturally, the ladies wanted to know first-hand about the outrage at Fanshawe House, now called "The Battle of the Sandwich." Jane let Caroline and Penelope begin the tale, but found that everyone wanted to know what she and Lord Fanshawe had said to one another.

Jane had thought hard about what to say. In the end, she decided that truth was best. She was not going to dismiss his behavior as a mere nothing. She was not going to say that she had not been made very unhappy by her separation from her sister. Instead, she told the story honestly, beginning with her opinion of the dowager Lady Carteret and the quack Malahyde, and their treatment of poor young Lady Carteret.

"Now that she has left London, she is wholly in their power. I fear for her health, but I pray all may be well."

She told them that Lord Fanshawe had never liked her and had been looking for a pretext to separate her from her sister. "'The Battle of the Sandwich,' indeed! It might as well have 'The Battle of the Snuffbox' or 'The Battle of the Toothpick Case.' The cause was a paltry one, and merely the excuse for something long premeditated."

"Well, I am sorry to hear it," commented Mrs. Montagu. "I am told that Lady Fanshawe is very lovely and amiable. I should like to know her."

"Oh, she is!" Jane agreed fervently. "And I hope you do make her acquaintance. Please do not think that because I have quarreled with her husband, I would want my sister deprived of good company!"

She was tired of talking over the sad business, and went to the instrument to play. This was met with admiration, and it appeared that every lady present was musically inclined. It had never occurred before at any evening party Jane had attended, but it was quite interesting for each lady to take a turn at amusing the others. The Tavington sisters played and sang a charming duet, Mrs. Montagu performed upon the harp, very creditably. Mrs. and Miss Paget knew some fresh and lively pieces by a young Italian named Clementi. Jane liked them, and resolved to ask Bellini about the composer.

They were so well entertained that Jane was a little sorry when the men finally joined them and dominated the conversation. She did not feel equal to attempts at wit, and so effaced herself quietly, content to make the tea and see that all her guests were cared for. After a little while, William came over to stand by her.

"You look tired, Jane," he murmured. "Do you need to leave the party?"

"No," she said, smiling brightly for the rest of the room, "I shall last well enough."

-----

The full range of gossip did not spread to Fanshawe House, and Letty was ignorant of most of it. She was too afraid of her husband even to try to pump her servants for information. She dressed, she paid morning calls all afternoon, in the company of her husband and Harmonia. Like Jane, she smiled brightly, and said little. There was little to say. On Sunday, she did not ask Lord Fanshawe's leave, but dressed and went to church as usual. Harmonia appeared as she was leaving, almost galloping down the stairs, demanding her cloak.

"Are you going to church, Lady Fanshawe?"

"Yes, of course."

"I want to go, too! Anything to get out of the house!"

"If you like."

She said nothing else to the girl: nothing in the carriage, nothing in the big, opulent church, nothing during the ride back. She went to her room to have Veronique carefully remove her hat, leaving Harmonia behind. From time to time, she had thought the girl was working herself up to some sort of speech, but Letty looked away, not wanting to hear anything from her.

Instead, she went downstairs to the Painted Parlor, feeling that it was a gilded prison. She looked ruefully at her desk, wishing to write a letter. To whom could she write? Lord Fanshawe had forbidden her to write to her sister, and Lord Carteret did not wish her to write to his wife. Whom did she know worth a letter? The predatory ladies whose company her husband enjoyed were all here in London, and Letty did not like them anyway. Whom else did she know? Everyone else was some connection of the Tavingtons or of her sister. Letty laughed desperately. It was a sorry thing, when she would consider writing a letter to Miss Gilpin, who had never known her as anything but a slave. She could not imagine what she could write to her, anyway. She considered writing to that poor little orphan, Deborah Porter, to whom she had sent some books in January, but she supposed that was forbidden as well, since the child would be regarded as a dependent of the Tavingtons.

Unable to find anything else to do, she studied her Italian until she was sick of it, and then sat down to her music and practiced diligently for an hour and a half.

_"Lascia ch'io pianga_

_mia cruda sorte,_

_e che sospiri la libertà._"

She did not look up until the servant entered, and told her she was wanted in the drawing room for tea.

Surprisingly, only Lord Fanshawe and Harmonia were there. Letty sighed, and then trembled at having so exposed her feelings. Her hands shook as she made the tea. Lord Fanshawe did not appear to notice her anxiety, but took the opportunity to announce his plans for Letty's future lessons.

"Bellini will be here tomorrow. As you seem to learn well with a companion, Harmonia will now share your Italian lesson."

The young blond girl groaned. "I have already studied Italian! I'm too old for lessons!" she objected. "I'm not an ignoramus, like _some_ people!"

Lord Fanshawe rewarded this piece of impertinence with an icy stare until his ward fell into confused and anxious silence. Then he said, "I thank you for your attention. As I said, Bellini comes tomorrow. You will exert yourselves, particularly at the musical portion of the lesson. Bellini is here as a teacher of music and Italian, and not as a gossip or messenger. If I find that he is so used, he will be dismissed, and will not enter this house again. I hope there will be no difficulties."

"No, my lord," Harmonia gulped.

"Lady Fanshawe?"

"No, my lord," replied Letty, head bowed humbly, eyes on the floor. If you looked a master in the eye, he might consider it an insolence, and strike you down.

There was a pause. Fanshawe felt a brief flutter of concern at such utter submission. Was this—fear? He dismissed such an absurd idea, and continued. "I shall apprise Bellini of my terms beforehand. I've no doubt he is a discreet fellow, and knows not to bite the hand that feeds him."

Letty said nothing, and handed him his teacup.

"Ah. Delicious. Well done, my dear Lady Fanshawe, as you do everything."

He chatted a little longer about the upcoming ball, and Letty made him soft, appeasing answers. Harmonia revived a little, hearing about _her_ ball, wishing that she might be allowed to express some opinions about it. She had tried, not a week ago, and her ideas had been dismissed without a hearing. Still, it _was_ a Ball, and she would be Out, and that was something. Then she would be presented at Court, and then perhaps she would find someone as handsome as Colonel Tavington, and he would ask for her hand, and she would be away from this place--

The butler appeared, needing to consult his lordship. Fanshawe excused himself and the door shut behind him, leaving the two young women together. Letty sipped her tea in silence, hating the sight of the plates of bread and butter, the plate of cake, and the horrible, horrible plate of sandwiches. She hated above all the sight of sandwiches. She would like to smash the plate on the floor. It was entertaining, in a frightening way, to imagine grabbing up the plate, the bright, brittle noise, the pieces scattering, the look on Harmonia's face—

She shook her head, and glanced at Harmonia. The girl was slumped in her chair, her mouth wobbling.

Finally, she managed, "'S'notfairShouldn'thavetodolessonss'notfair!"

Letty looked at her and made no answer.

Provoked by her silence, Harmonia screamed out, "It's not fair! I hate it here! I shouldn't have to do lessons! I'm no better than a slave!"

A sharp twang, like a snapped bowstring, galvanized Letty. Instantly, she was on her feet, and dashing at Harmonia. A loud_crack!_ and her hand stung with the force the slap. Harmonia was gaping up at her, her mouth open in astonishment. Letty stared back disbelieving, and then her rage rose up in her like wings and she hit the girl again. Harmonia shrieked, and slipped from the chair to the floor.

"You stupid little wench!" Letty hissed. "You don't know _anything!_ Think you're a slave, with your fine room and your silks and your school for young ladies? You make me sick with your whining. Has your father sold you off on an auction block to a whorehouse? Has anybody made you work out in the sun, picking worms off tobacco leaves? Do you have to fetch water, chop wood, carry out slops, sew 'til your fingers bleed? What's your father done to you? Made you learn lessons so you can be a _fine lady! _Did he whip your skin off your back, or put you in the stocks, or give you to his friends to rape? You don't know _anything!"_

Harmonia cowered, hands lifted to protect her face, "I'll tell! I'll tell him you hit me!"

"You just go and tell him! You just do that, you little tell-tale! That's all you're good for! Whining and tattling, and making life miserable for everybody! Poor Lady Carteret may _die_ because you couldn't keep your blabbing mouth shut! Does that make you feel good? I'll just bet it does! Think you're so smart, Miss Young Ladies' Academy? Will it make you happy if she dies?"

Harmonia's pink face dissolved into tears. "She was doing something she wasn't supposed to! Everybody hates me! Why did you take me out of school? I liked it there! Lord Fanshawe won't let me see my friends, and you hate me, and everything's all wrong!" Her last words were gurgled, barely understandable as she burst out into sobs.

Letty stood over her, still shaking with anger. "I took you out? I never did! That was your father! Don't you blame me! I had my sister and her family, and I was fine until you stuck your turned-up nose where it don't belong! You think everybody hates you? You don't like leaving your friends? Well, too bad! You've done nothing but insult me and my sister since we met you, so don't go crying about people not liking you! You haven't done much to deserve anything else!"

"I'm sorry!" Harmonia sobbed. "Don't hit me again!"

That hurt. Letty suffered a twinge of guilt. She had never struck anyone before. Her eyes burned. Absently, she felt in her pocket for a handkerchief. "Here," she said, feeling terribly tired. "Wipe your face. It's not me you should apologize to. Did you ever think about Lady Carteret? Does she deserve to be starved and bled dry? She never did anything to you."

"Sorry—sorry," Harmonia moaned, clutching gratefully at the handkerchief. "I didn't think! But—the doctor said so—and you have to do what the doctor says—and her mother—"

"And how was it your business to tattle to them?"

Sulkily, Harmonia wiped her nose. "It's what we did at school. Our Headmistress made a special time for each of us so we could tell her what other girls were doing. She gave us hot chocolate in flowered cups and sometimes orange biscuits. I liked being with her. If you told her enough, she let you wear a pink velvet rose that week."

"Well, this is life, not a little girls' school, and what you tell people _matters._ You go on about being grown-up, but you act like you're about five years old—whining and pouting and nothing being good enough for you—"

"I said I was sorry!" Harmonia wailed. Letty sighed and collapsed into Harmonia's chair. The girl was still on the floor, her petticoats billowing around her. "You don't think Lady Carteret _really_ will die, do you?"

"I don't know. I hope she's all right, but surely you can see that starving her doesn't make any sense! My Mama—"

She stopped. Harmonia was looking at her. "What about your mother?"

"You don't want to hear about my mother."

"Yes, I do. Do you remember your mother? I don't know anything about mine. Was she pretty?"

"She was beautiful and kind and wise," whispered Letty. "She loved me more than anything."

"She sounds nice," sniffled Harmonia, wriggling closer to Letty. "What happened to her?"

"A bad man shot her dead."

Harmonia started back in horror. "She was killed? In the war?"

"Yes. She was killed right in front of me."

"That's—horrible," the girl whispered, wide-eyed. "Was Mrs. Tavington there too?"

"Yes. That's why she has a pistol now."

"Oh." Harmonia shivered. A curtain had been drawn back, and a world—a frightening world—of violence and cruelty had been exposed. "Did Colonel Tavington save you?"

"He came later. He wasn't in time to save Mama."

"I'm sorry." The girl struggled with concepts and events that felt much too big for her. She found something within her grasp. "Do you think she would have liked England?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"What would your mother have said about Lady Carteret? You were about to tell me."

"She would have said that Doctor Malahyde was a quack, and that women need healthy nourishing food to build babies. She didn't hold with bleeding either. She knew all about herbs and raising children, and my sister and I grew up healthy and strong because of her."

"Your father—didn't he protect her –?"

"She was a slave. She belonged to my sister's mother. He raped her, and got me on her, and when he was tired of her, he kept her to be my sister's nurse. She dressed in fustian and home-spun, and he never even asked about her when she didn't come back from the backcountry. She was nothing to him but a slave, so don't you ever compare how your father treats you to what she went through."

Harmonia's jaw dropped further. Here was more of the real world. She could think of nothing clever to say. Now and then, schoolmates had left school, when their fathers had died or when there was no more money for schooling. Harmonia had never considered that her father might just as well left her to be raised by her mother—whoever or whatever she was—and that she could be selling apples in the street or making lace in a cellar. She did now.

"I won't tell," she promised. "I won't tell anyone that your mother was—a slave. But—" she considered, thinking a little longer, "I don't understand. Don't you have to be a Negro to be a slave? How could she be a slave?"

"Actually," Letty told her, "what makes a slave is a bill of sale. But yes, my mother's grandmother on her father's side was African. Her own mother was Cherokee. There are lots of Indian slaves in the Carolinas, captured during raids and battles."

"An Indian! Really! That's very interesting! Do you have any Indian things, like—wampum or beads or feathers?"

Letty looked down at her wearily.

Harmonia blushed. "Did that sound _very_ stupid?"

"Never mind. Of course I don't. Do you think slaves keep their valuables? They've been robbed of their freedom, so naturally the slavers rob them of everything else too. I never knew my grandmother, anyway. It doesn't matter. I don't care if you tell. I'm not ashamed of my good, kind mother. My father was a rich white gentleman, but he was mean and greedy and vicious. If I ashamed of anybody, he's the one."

"But you had to do what he said when you lived with him."

"That's right. Fathers have to obeyed. So do guardians. It doesn't do any good to argue with Lord Fanshawe. You must do as he says without whining and complaining."

"So do you. He is your husband."

"Do I whine and complain?"

"Never," Harmonia admitted, in a very small voice. "But it still isn't fair."

"No, it isn't fair, but it's just the way life is. You can't see your schoolfriends, and I can't see my sister. Do you think that's fair?"

"No. What are we going to do?

_We?_ Letty considered. Harmonia had never said anything before that indicated that she thought the two of them had anything in common. Perhaps they did.

"We are going to have our Italian lesson tomorrow. We will talk with Signor Bellini, who is a kind friend, and smile and do our best, and maybe learn a new song. Those are not such terrible things, Harmonia."

"I suppose not. I'm tired."

"I am, too. Let me look at you." The girl's cheek was still red. "Put some cold water on a cloth and lie down with it on your face. Take a nap before dinner. And then—"

"Then—" the girl quavered.

"Then we just get through every day as it comes."

-----

Sunday dinner was another quiet meal, at least for Letty. There were others at the table: Lord Fanshawe's secretaries, and his old friend Lord Rowley, and a gentleman with whom he was discussing improvements to Salton Park. Letty smiled and nodded through the meal, and was pleased to see that Harmonia was trying to do the same. When the gentleman joined them in the drawing room, they performed obediently, singing and playing, and then conversing—which meant agreeing with what the gentlemen said. Letty was glad to see the last of them, and was even more glad at how nicely Harmonia said goodnight to the two of them

"Well, that was an improvement," remarked Lord Fanshawe. His sources had informed him that Lady Fanshawe had finally had enough of Miss James and had slapped her face, though the witness, regrettably, had heard very little of the ensuing conversation. "I am quite certain that it is you doing, Lady Fanshawe. You have been an excellent influence on the child."

"Thank you, my lord."

"Yes, I have great hopes of your becoming friends at last. I grant I would have preferred if it could have happened 'at first,' but better late than never."

Letty nodded, her eyes on the floor.

"It has not escaped me, dear Lady Fanshawe, that you have not been in the best spirits since the events of last Wednesday. And yet, you have not reproached me or pleaded for me to alter my resolve."

"I thought it would be useless."

"Very astute of you," Fanshawe observed, quite pleased with her. "Useless indeed. In time, I trust, you will understand the necessity of the break. I deem it for the best. It escapes me how you can regret the company of one who must always remind you of your past oppression and servitude. Resentment would be perfectly natural."

"I do not resent my sister," Letty replied, greatly daring. "I love her. She was always sweet to me and protected me."

"Nonetheless, a separation is desirable. You are not her satellite, but a star in your own right. I can see that you are not convinced."

"I miss her, and I am worried about her, especially with so many worries as she has now."

"Oh? What worries?"

Briefly, Letty told him about the search for the mysterious box of ivory and ebony, the missing nurse, and the prying substitute. Lord Fanshawe seemed interested, so she went on, detailing the visit from Sir Edward Claypoole, the search of the lawyer's chambers, and the attempt to locate the missing object. Lord Fanshawe's smile grew as she told her story, and at the end, he burst into a hearty laugh. Letty stared at him, hurt, and then remembered to look away before he could meet her eye. Curiously, her afternoon confrontation with Harmonia gave her the strength to object to his response to her tale.

Softly but feelingly, she said, "It's cruel to laugh at me, my lord. It's cruel to take me from my sister and my friends and then laugh at me."

Fanshawe sat back in his comfortable chair, still very entertained "My dear Lady Fanshawe, calm yourself. I am not so lost to good breeding as to laugh at _you._ No, I am much amused at the antics of your sister's husband and the rest of the Tavingtons. It is unlikely that they will discover any of Lady Cecily's secrets."

"Really?" Letty sat and thought, and decided to see if he would tell her more. "Why is that?"

Her husband smiled slowly, considering. "You cannot write to your sister about this. I want your word of honor."

Letty sighed. "My word of honor, my lord. I already promised not to write my sister about anything."

"Nor any of the other Tavingtons, nor anyone else who might inform them. In fact, I forbid you to put this information to paper."

"On my word of honor, I will not."

"Very well," said Fanshawe, delighted to be able to tell someone his secret joke. "They will not find the box, because they are looking where _Lady Cecily_ might have hidden it. I know for a fact that said box left her possession in 1765. She may have raved about it in her last illness, but she knew no more than they where it was in reality."

"But then, who has it?"

Fanshawe leaned forward, smiling with malicious delight.

"If anyone could be said to have it, I suppose it would be Mad Jack Tavington himself."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I buried the box with him, the day of his funeral."

-----

**Next: Lost Ladies**


	64. Lost Ladies

**Chapter 64: Lost Ladies**

Silence followed a moment of utter confusion. Letty looked at Lord Fanshawe, trying to make sense of what he had just told her. He seemed to find it all quite a joke.

"I don't understand," she finally said. "You put the box that Colonel Tavington is looking for in his father's coffin?"

"Yes. Precisely."

Another pause of incredulity. "Why, my lord?"

"On a whim, I suppose. Jack Tavington enjoyed plaguing his lady. They were very much at odds in those days before his last illness. He had taken this box from her, he told me, because he did not want her to profit from it. Something about the Tavingtons being many things, but that they had not yet stooped to extortion. He asked me to look after the box--to hide it where his wife could not put her hands on it. Shortly thereafter he took to his bed, and died before he could tell me how to dispose of it. I was at his deathbed, but could not manage a moment alone. Just before they shut the coffin, I slipped it in, and never thought about it until now."

"What is in it?"

"You know, Madam, I never looked. Tavington required me, on my honor, never to look. I did not. Of course, I can guess—and I believe I have a good idea. Yes, the papers, if they contain what I believe they do, could be very damaging to very important persons."

"You were never tempted to take them yourself?"

"Madam!" Fanshawe smiled, but he clearly was a little put out. "I am not an extortionist either! Besides," he said, more calmly, "there is nothing that I desire that I cannot get for myself. I have all the money and land any man could rationally want, I care for no offices, and I never felt the least impulse to wed a princess."

"Isn't there anything you dream of?"

He gave an odd laugh. "Eternal Life, my youth restored, my lost friends and mistresses returned from the dead, I suppose. Can any mortal man, be he King, Pope, or Emperor grant these wishes? The documents were useless to me, and I desired only to be rid of them. Now that Lady Cecily is dead, and had the Tavingtons not vexed me, I might have told them about the box—a very pretty coffer, by the way—if I had happened to think of it. It might be amusing, anyway. I shall consider it. Would they pursue it, if they knew they must open their father's tomb? I wonder."

----

"I'm an authoress!" Caroline cried, rushing up to the music room, waving a letter. "Mr. Tregallon is going to publish my book! I shall even be paid—one hundred pounds!"

"Oh, Caro!" cried Penelope, "That is splendid!"

"Yes!" agreed Jane, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. "You will be our own literary light. We shall drag you about the city and bask in your reflected glory. We must celebrate tonight!"

A little more talk, more praise, more excited speculation, and Penelope remarked, "Oh, we must not forget to plan for John's trip to Kent! I should have liked to have gone, but perhaps it would be better if you went to Kent to fetch Mrs. Martingale, Caro. I have that meeting on Friday at the Magdalen."

"You ought not to go alone, Penelope," Jane cautioned her.

"Very well—come with me!" Penelope urged. "I would like you to see the wonderful work they do. Do come! We shall attend service in the Chapel there, and then visit the schoolrooms and inspect the quarters. You will find it very interesting. Perhaps—" she paused, "—perhaps your maid would like to come along. She might know people there. The Matron would be proud of her, I know, if she could see how well poor Pullen is doing."

"I shall ask her, " Jane replied, "but I shall not order her to come. Perhaps it would be painful to revisit the place. I don't want her to be made unhappy. But yes, I shall come with you and see the place. Are you willing to go to Kent with Sir John, Caroline?"

"Yes! I think I should like that. I have not been further south than London since that year we all went to Paris before the War. Do you remember, Pen? Mamma ordered those lovely gowns. I still have mine, though it is long out of date. Perhaps I should give it to my maid."

"Oh, don't" cried Penelope, "It is too pretty!"

"—and since skirts are narrower now," Jane suggested, "perhaps your maid could take it apart and create a new dress for you in the current mode."

"Perhaps. There is no point in worrying about it now. I could not wear it for nearly a year. I considered ordering a better traveling habit in black, but I do not want to be so fine that Mrs. Martingale imagines that I am trying to intimidate her!"

"Ah! The terrifying Caroline Tavington," laughed Jane. "Too grand for the likes of her brother's fiancée!"

"Don't laugh!" Caroline objected, laughing herself. "Who knows what the poor woman imagines we are like? Perhaps she think us to be arrogant London ladies, who will sneer and smirk at a woman from the country."

"Many would," Jane admitted wryly.

"Just so."

"But _we_ are not like that," Penelope declared. "I am so, so happy that John has found someone nice! William says Mrs. Martingale's little girl is a pretty, sweet thing. John is her godfather, and quite dotes on her. What a joy to have a little girl about." She added, embarrassed, "—not that we don't love your little boys, Jane—"

"I'm not at all upset," Jane said. "I would love a little girl about, too. She would stay at home and we would all cram her with accomplishments and lavish her little gowns with frills and flounces and embroidered fancies. I once saw a little girl's dress—yellow, with butterflies stitched in brown and green and gold—"

"—Oh!" cried Penelope, becoming very excited, "let uss give the child a gown just after the wedding, as a present—oh, but stay—she is in mourning—"

"—half-mourning by then, Pen," Caroline reminded her. "the gown could be white, with a black or silver sash, and silver embroidery at the sleeves. Perhaps some touches of lace. Something very delicate for such a little girl—"

"Do you think Sir John is planning a wedding trip? "Jane wondered. "If so, would the child stay with us? Perhaps Mr. and Mrs. Clarke would prefer that she stay with them, until John and his bride return."

"Oh, I hope she stays here," Penelope said. "It would be delightful!"

"In the meantime," Jane remarked, "Let us return to the matter at hand. When is your book to come out, Caroline?"

"In less than a month! Mr. Tregallon thinks well of it. I am so pleased. The book was such a pleasure and comfort to write."

"Perhaps you shall write another!"

"Oh, Jane!" Caroline groaned. "You don't know what you're saying! Such an effort! I shall rest on my laurels—as soon as I have any!"

Jane gave thanks every day that she had such wonderful companions as her husband's sisters. Lucy came too, at least twice a week, bringing Ned to play with Ash. The little boys were so adorable together, taking turns on the rocking horse, good old Dapple-Grey, or making up incomprehensible puppet plays in the little theatre. Rose was adapting to life in London fairly well, though caring for three small boys was a taxing business. Jane thought she needed a deputy, and set little Jenny to work as under-nurse. Jenny seemed to love the nursery, being little more than a child herself. At first Jane wondered if the girl was strong enough to lift and carry the growing boys as needed, but she had built up her muscles carrying pails and buckets and trays and hods of coal, and seemed to cope quite well. If another housemaid were to be needed, they could take on a new girl. Jane preferred that the nursery be staffed with those she knew and trusted.

She was still suckling the babies, and was quite tired of it. She had considered weaning Thomas when he had his first birthday on February twenty-fourth, but soon recognized an insurmountable problem. She could hardly nurse William Francis without the other baby noticing and being hurt. It was just too inconvenient to take William Francis away to another room. It would all have to wait until William Francis was one in May, and then she would wean them both at once. Satisfied with that solution, she wondered if she would ever nurse another child of hers at all. It was such a lot of work and bother, but Biddy had always said a baby did best with his own mother's milk.

_Perhaps I shall nurse the child for a month or two, and then turn the task over to a wet-nurse. It would give me so much more freedom, and I wouldn't be sore and bitten all the time. On the other hand, I wonder what my figure will be like after I wean the boys. Probably as flat as before. Poor William. I wonder if Lord Fanshawe will allow Letty to nurse her own child—_

Her cheerful mood evaporated. Jane sat back in her chair, listening to her sisters-in-law's happy chatter, and was overcome with misery. She had not heard from Letty in a week. Bellini had come, and told her that Lord Fanshawe had demanded that Lady Fanshawe give him no messages on pain of dismissal. He was not permitted to tell Letty anything about Jane or the rest of the Tavington household. Letty was not to speak of Jane and could not write to her. However, nothing prevented Bellini from telling Jane all the particulars of Letty's appearance and demeanour.

"Beautiful as always—a little sad. The young Miss James is much improved in her manners to the lady, and they work hard at their lessons."

He assured her that Lord Fanshawe continued to treat her sister with respect. If Miss James had improved, that was all the better. Jane wondered if Letty had spoken to her, or if Lord Fanshawe had. She hoped it was not all a show for Bellini's benefit. Thinking it through, she hit upon a plan to send Letty a message that would at least tell her she was missed. Before Bellini left, she secured his cooperation.

She could not sit here moping. "I think I should pay some calls today," she told them. "Do come with me if you can—William prefers it. I need to call on Mrs. Tazewell and the Pagets, and I have put off Lady Melmerby and her daughters too long—"

"Of course we shall come. Perhaps we can squeeze in some time for Mrs. Montagu, too, " agreed Penelope.

"And next Wednesday, we shall take you to the British Museum again," declared Caroline. "A treat for us all."

Jane smiled painfully. "I like the Museum very much. I could go a hundred times and not see it all." They went upstairs to change for visiting. Jane knew they chose Wednesday as the day for the Museum visit to distract her from her exile from Letty's At Homes. How she longed to see her sister. What if Letty had her baby and Jane was not permitted to hold and kiss her own nephew or niece? A wicked thought slid like a sharp knife through her mind. _Lord Fanshawe is old. If he were to die, Letty would be free of him, and we would be reunited. I wish he would—I wish he would die…_

It was dreadful and wrong, and Jane forced the idea away, thinking instead about the curiosities and wonders of Sir Hans Sloane's collection, open to the public at the British Museum. She had never imagined such a place when she lived in South Carolina. There were not even any colleges in South Carolina, much less museums and libraries and observatories. When the weather was better, she hoped to see the great Observatory at Greenwich. When the boys were weaned she would have the time. She thought industriously about natural philosophy and magnetic attraction, but thinking of observatories made her think of telescopes, which made her think of astronomy, which made her think of Letty. She read the inscription Letty had written in the astronomy book for ladies that Jane had received.

"To the dearest of sisters—"_ If only he would die--_

She must stop. The tears would start running down her cheeks and ruin her cosmetics and Pullen would be vexed. Jane decided to think about the mummy she had seen at the Museum. How macabre, but fascinating. She kept her mind on it as she changed into her black visiting ensemble and her enormous plumed hat. She had bought a wonderful hatpin with a black pearl head. Black pearls were a satisfactory line of thought. They reminded her of Lady Trumfleet snoring in her chair. That brought a smile to her lips, and Jane went downstairs to join her sisters-in-law in the carriage with improved spirits.

The first two visits were pleasant, but unremarkable. It was at the Marchioness of Melmerby's that Jane heard that Lady Carteret was dead.

-----

Lady Melbourne swept into Lady Fanshawe's drawing room rather early, her eyes glittering with excitement at being the bearer of such shocking news. She was early, but not the first. After the delicious scandal of last week, Lady Fanshawe's house was bursting with visitors, hoping for another entertainment.

There was Fanshawe, slim and elegant, his white hair and black velvet coat making him look like a drawing in charcoal on white paper. He bowed graciously, and Lady Fanshawe looked up and saw her. Such an exquisite creature, if of suspect origins. She would no doubt be distressed by the news. Better that she should hear it from a friend, than read it in a vulgar newspaper.

"My dear Lady Fanshawe. Such dreadful tidings! In truth, it wounds me to break it to you, but I fear someone must!"

Lord Fanshawe overheard, and frowned, wondering what the lady was speaking of. There was no disaster at Mortimer Square, he was certain. A footman in the Tavingtons' employ was well paid to keep Fanshawe informed of the doings there.

Lady Melbourne took Letty's hand, with a show of tender sentiment. "It is poor Lady Carteret. She died Monday night. Her heart simply stopped, I am told, while Doctor Malahyde was ministering to her. With such a regimen of purgings and bleedings and hot plasters, and such a careful diet, one wonders how it could have happened, but it is so, alas!"

Letty stood immobile, her face tightening and she took in the news. Lady Melbourne hoped for an explosion of tears, but was distracted when the explosion came instead from Fanshawe's ward, who screamed aloud and rushed from the room.

"So Doctor Malahyde has killed her. I wish I could say I am surprised," was Letty's first, frozen response. "Excuse me, but I must see to Harmonia." White and trembling, she gave a cursory nod to the company and left.

The other guests crowded in to hear the awful tale.

"Well," Lady Melbourne declared. "There was such a tremendous blow-up! Lord Carteret sobbed over his wife and begged her to forgive him, and then accused Doctor Malahyde of murdering her! And then the Dowager tried to intervene, and Carteret laid hands on a dog whip and thrashed the poor doctor until his coat hung in tatters, while the old lady shrieked for her son to spare him. Lord Carteret is quite inconsolable, for of course the unborn infant would have been his heir, and naturally it died, too, though I am told that Mary must have known she was dying, for she had begged Lord Carteret to save the child. But of course no one would have performed such an outrage on the lady's lifeless form as to cut her open."

"Did not this Doctor Malahyde have the skill?" asked Bellini from a corner of the room, with a hint of a sneer.

"Certainly not," was Lady Melbourne's brusque answer. "He is a physician, not a mere _surgeon_. At any rate, mother and child were both lost. There was nothing to be done. Doctor Malahyde is fled, and the dowager was only prevented from following her—" Lady Melbourne's painted mouth twisted with amusement—"_favorite_—by a threat from Carteret that he would never see her again if she had any contact with that man in future. What a to-do!"

"Very melancholy news," agreed Fanshawe gravely. "I am sorry for Harry, and shall write him at my first opportunity. This must grieve Lady Fanshawe greatly, I fear. Pray excuse me. I fear our revels must be cut short today, as Lady Fanshawe will need my support. Good day to you all."

Lady Melbourne was rather put out, for she had hoped to be invited to stay and comfort the lady during the inevitable torrent of tears. No doubt Lady Fanshawe would have more interesting things to say about Malahyde and about the fracas involving her sister. It was positively cruel of Fanshawe not to permit her to be of use. He was already striding from the room. The party, even without him, continued; for there was the news and there were the refreshments, and really, it would be too insulting simply to leave at once, without staying to denounce the incompetence of doctors and praise the late Lady Carteret's many charms and virtues.

Fanshawe left them to it, cynically wondering how many would still be there by dinner time. Women died from childbearing all too frequently—as had his second wife, the amiable and well-dowered Hester. Very sad always, but of course, this misfortune was coupled by the silly dowager's devotion to a quack, and his friend's inability to refuse his mother anything—until now, it appeared. Lady Fanshawe had warned him, but he had dismissed it as an unsophisticated young woman's ignorance of modern medicine. She would need careful handling.

He found them in Harmonia's room—a charming place, all white and delicate primrose yellow, trimmed in clear blue. The ladies in it, unfortunately, were in utter disarray, for Letty was in a small chair with Harmonia's head in her lap. The girl was hysterical, and Lady Fanshawe herself was weeping. Fanshawe noted in passing that she wept more attractively than most women, for her face was as yet undisfigured by her grief, while Harmonia's was red and distorted, her blue eyes blood-shot and puffy, her nose swollen and dripping. He grimaced in distaste, but knew he must speak.

"I beg your pardon," he said softly. "Forgive me, my dear Lady Fanshawe, and Harmonia, my dear child. I am at yours to command in this unhappy hour. Pray let me know how I may serve you."

Letty felt ill and heavy and could hardly bear to look at him. "There is nothing to be done now, my lord," she answered, equally softly. "Harmonia feels dreadful about causing Lady Carteret to be taken away. It will be a reproach to her forever, but I suppose if it had not been her, it would have been something else to set that stupid old lady off. After she has her cry out, I'll send for some tea, and we'll take it here. I do not think that either of us will be equal to dinner tonight."

"Yes, I expect it is best that you both rest. A very sad business. You did not hear, I believe, that Lord Carteret is inconsolable, and drove Malahyde away with blows and reproaches."

"No, I didn't hear, and how does it matter? I don't want to hear anything more about it. Nothing can bring poor Lady Carteret back, and I don't want to hear the details about how that wicked man starved and tortured her to death. She told me enough about the cruel, indecent things he did. She's safe now, and I will have to be satisfied with that." After a pause, she added, "And her poor baby." She turned her head away and a sob escaped her. Feeling that his presence could do no good, Fanshawe bowed and left the room.

He went to his library, considering the matter. He could send for Mrs. Tavington, but the thought repelled him. It would mean having to apologize to her, and then the wretched woman would be glaring at him with those beady, lashless eyes over that lamentably long, sharp nose. She was, he decided, rather like a suspicious rabbit. He could not endure the sight of her, and perhaps Lady Fanshawe and Harmonia were best left to themselves at such a time. Shared grief often brought people together. Certainly this distasteful affair would curb Harmonia of her schoolgirl tattling. That would certainly be a gain.

His lady would probably not wish to pay calls tomorrow, either, he acknowledged. She had a tender heart, and Lady Carteret had been an unusually charming and agreeable companion. He felt sincere regret at her death. The world was always poorer for the loss of a pretty and pleasant-tempered lady, and Harry had been quite taken with her. Losing the child would be a great blow. None of Harry's children by his first wife had lived past their second birthday. It would be a grim business to start all over again at his time of life. Fanshawe selected a sheet of fine writing paper, and began composing an elegant letter of genuine condolence.

-----

_Why could things not happen one at a time?_ Jane wondered, in despair. She was feeling overwhelmed. She had quarreled with Lord Fanshawe and had been forbidden to see or write Letty. Lady Carteret was dead, just as Jane felt she was making a delightful new friend. Over them hung the mystery of Lady Cecily's papers, which they were no closer to solving than ever.

William was not telling her everything. Why was he so concerned for their safety? It was horrid that a spy had infiltrated their house, but Mrs. Venable was gone now, and they were free from surveillance. They seemed safe enough to Jane, but William would not let her go out alone or unarmed. They talked often, speculating on what the secrets contained in the mysterious casket of ivory and ebony must be. William wondered if somehow his mother had laid hands on letters concerning the Prince of Wales. He was constantly embroiled in scandals, and perhaps something he had written one of his mistresses had come her way. There had been some gossip about letters to the lovely Mrs. Robinson. Perhaps the Prince had been indiscreet, and had promised his Perdita more than he could perform.

"I'll go pay a call on Tarleton tomorrow," Tavington told Jane, as they settled down to bed one night. "He's taken a house with the lady. Rawdon tells me they're like a pair of doves in a cote—quite sickeningly enamored."

"She is married to another, is she not?" Jane inquired tartly. "Sickening indeed! How prophetic is was that she played a role like "Perdita!' She has rather convincingly 'lost' her virtue!"

"Oh, I'm told Robinson's a trifling, worthless fellow—someone told me he's in Italy. What's the girl to do? The husband abandoned her with a child and no money. Then the Prince pressured her into becoming his mistress, ruined her reputation and her stage career, and afterwards left her, too. She must have a protector, and she has no family to care for her. Tarleton and she might rub along quite happily."

"No doubt!"

He laughed. "She's very beautiful, but beauty has its limits, as I'm sure she's found. I'll just chat them up and see if my mother ever met her. Mamma met all sorts of people when she went out gambling. For all I know, she might have struck up an acquaintance before Mrs. Robinson became someone she could not acknowledge."

"So you will not be going with Sir John to Kent?"

"No. He'll go with Caro, and take plenty of armed outriders. The last visit was all right. Perhaps it's best that both of us are not gone from home at once. I'll stay here with you and Pen, and nose about town a little more."

"And I will prepare your old room for Mrs. Martingale. I am so happy that you agreed to have your things moved next door to me. It is very convenient."

"Very convenient," he murmured, his hand brushing up the hem of her shift.

-----

He was there a little after one. Banastre Tarleton tended to sleep late, now that he was back in England, without any particular duties or responsibilities. Tavington found the house without difficulty, and was shown in at once to a small but elegant drawing room.

Mary Robinson greeted him alone. "Colonel Tavington," she said, her voice luscious, as if she had been eating ripe fruit. Tavington paused to admire her. She was setting the fashion, as always, in her delicate dress of white muslin, somehow looking ethereal without looking at all untouchable. "Tarleton is out, the brute!" She smiled enchantingly. "I am sorry to disappoint you. He promised to be back by half past two. If you care to wait, you will have to put up with me."

"How shall I bear it?" he asked, straight-faced.

She laughed, melodious and mocking, and invited him to share the sofa with her. "Lord Rawdon may join us later. Have you not seen him today?"

"No, but I would have missed him if he called. I have been out and about."

"Men ought to be active," she applauded. "Tarleton has told me that you were always very—energetic—in your pursuits. And a first-rate horseman. It's very important that a man know really know how to ride."

Tavington noticed, as if for the first time, how low-cut the bodice of her gown was. Just a hairbreadth lower, and he would see… He shifted, his breeches feeling uncomfortably snug. He forced himself to remember that he was here to make inquiries.

"Actually, I wanted to speak to you as well. It may seem an odd question, but were you acquainted with my mother, Lady Cecily Tavington?"

Her luminous eyes opened wide at the question, so clearly unanticipated. "Your mother?" She thought, briefly, taking care not to wrinkle her brow. "Yes, I believe I had the honor of speaking to your mother: once at Mrs. Crewe's, and once at the house of Mr. Sheridan. She was a very elegant, striking lady. I was very sorry to hear that she had died."

"I thank you for your sentiments. You would not describe your acquaintance as intimate?"

"Hardly!" she laughed at him, putting a fingertip to her lips and dimpling. "Lady Cecily was of unimpeachable reputation, whilst I, alas—"

"--I was gone you see, until last September, and have been trying to understand her activities. She was ill and rather secretive in her last days."

Mary Robinson bit her lip. "You are not here about the fifty pounds, I hope? I simply don't have it."

Tavington blinked. "Fifty pounds? Are you saying that—"

"Never mind—a trifling matter—and already forgiven, of course. No, I cannot claim an intimate association. I spoke to her last—oh, Heavens! It must have been nearly two years ago. So much has changed since then. She has died, alas, and I have been to Paris."

She leaned back against the sofa with a sigh. Her dress moved with her, diaphanous and cloud-like. Tavington found himself mesmerized by the way the trimming of the bodice pressed in against her breasts. She noticed him looking and smiled pertly. "Do you like my gown? It is the Parisian style. The Queen has forsaken silk and satin and dresses in white muslin, like a simple shepherdess!"

"No shepherdess of my acquaintance ever wore anything so—exquisite."

She laughed outright. "A stage shepherdess, then. And opera shepherdess. A shepherdess of Arcadian fantasy. But my costume does please you?"

"It could not fail to please any man," he replied, feeling that gallant speech came rather easily with such a beauty. She had lovely hands, too, and Tavington admired how her fingers stroked the sleek brocade of the sofa. It would be very pleasant, he thought, to be stroked by those same tapered fingers…

"So you are trying to discover your mother's secrets?" she asked, looking deeply into his eyes. "You must be warned that a lady's secrets are not lightly to be revealed. All manner or hazards and penalties may arise to punish your curiosity. You may find yourself, like Actaeon spying on Diana, torn by the dogs for knowing what you ought not to know."

"It is—possible, but I must know them all the same." He could not resist, but laid his hand softly over hers. The small hand was smooth and very warm. It was the most natural thing in the word to bring her hand to his lips and kiss it, and then to turn it over and kiss the blue-veined wrist.

She gave a deep sigh of pleasure. "I am so glad you came to call. I was feeling quite forsaken."

"Tarleton is a fool to leave your side, even for an instant."

She dimpled again, and rose lithely from the sofa. "You quite enthrall me, Colonel. Let me show you all _my_ secrets!" She drifted from the room, laughing over her shoulder.

He stood up, uncertain and confused. What was the woman at?

"Follow me!" she called from the staircase.

Tavington, by now certain that she had nothing to do with his mother, was both disappointed and rather excited. Perhaps he should go, but there was just a chance—

"Up here!"

He was climbing the stairs before he realized it. There was an empty room, and another, and beyond them a closed door.

"Come in!"

He opened the door, and started in surprise. Somehow she had already thrown off her gown. It lay, carefully spread out on a daybed, so as not to wrinkle the delicate linen. He realized now why it had looked particularly diaphanous. She really had had nothing on beneath it other than her silk stockings and garters. No stays—not even a shift. And her snowy breasts really were as perfect as he had imagined.

A naked woman is always cause to revise one's immediate plans. She was very clever with Tavington's buttons, he discovered: very clever about everything. Her bed was wonderfully comfortable and allowed the proper support for all their improper activities. She had not drawn the curtains, and the sun through the long window revealed that she had nothing to hide, even if she had been the sort of woman who felt she had anything to hide. It was quite amazing to explore a woman so perfectly lovely, and quite amazing to enjoy the expertise of a woman who had actually given the art of love some real thought. Dazed and pleasured, it occurred to him that she was really quite intelligent, in an unusual way he had never imagined in a woman. A touch, a caress, a delicate movement, slowing and quickening; everything in its perfect moment. After an hour, he had fallen back, head on a pillow, utterly, blissfully spent.

"I do adore fucking. I have promised myself never to deny myself anything I want. Life is too short."

Tavington was still collecting his thoughts, as he lay beside her. The incongruity of this lady-like beauty's lovely manners and her choice of language was rather disconcerting. "Eat, drink, and be merry—and so forth?"

"Especially 'and so forth.' In the blink of an eye, we shall all be old, and then we shall be dead. I want to experience everything in life. You have no idea what it is for a woman to cross the line from so-called virtue to vice. It is really escaping bondage and embracing freedom. I love Tarleton most passionately, but when I see a man I desire, it seems foolish to let him pass by. You are such a splendid lover," she appraised him frankly, running a soft hand over his chest, tweaking a brown nipple. "I thought I should never stop coming." She consulted the little gold watch by her bed. "It is twenty past two, Colonel. Perhaps we ought to tidy ourselves. Tarleton should be here momentarily, and I would not want to give him the wrong impression of our pleasant conversation." She produced a delicate handkerchief from the bedside table, and began erasing the evidence of their encounter.

"Nor I," Tavington agreed, sliding off the bed, and hastily clothing himself. It crossed his mind that somehow, it was he who had been made use of, rather than she. He glanced at the young woman, who was rearranging herself with unhurried serenity, glowing a little with satisfaction. "I have no wish to quarrel with Tarleton."

"Of course not. It would be a pity for good friends to part over a trifle." The dress was donned with a hushed whisper of muslin. She went to the mirror and arranged her hair with deft, expert fingers. "There. I look quite as I should." She looked Tavington over judiciously, and smoothed his hair back. "And so do you. Let us go down and await our friend."

They returned to the drawing room. Tavington did not join her on the sofa again, but found a chair he liked opposite her. She rang for tea, and talked to him about what she had read lately. He told her about the dinner with Doctor Johnson. It was all very sedate and agreeable. Tavington relaxed into the chair, glad that this beautiful woman was someone Jane would never meet socially. He did not regret her impulsive seduction, but Jane would not understand that such a woman could mean nothing to him…

In less than five minutes, Tarleton came bounding through the front door and into the drawing room with Rawdon in tow.

"Heyday! Here is Tavington! How splendid! Oh—yes, my love, tea would be perfect—"

"My dear Tavington—" exclaimed Rawdon. "So glad to see you! You must know about this scandalous affair!"

"Which one?" Tavington blurted out. All his companions laughed immoderately, Mary Robinson as gaily as the others.

"A wit, upon my word," grinned Tarleton, throwing himself down on the sofa next to his mistress. "But really, Tavington, it was in the lobby of the House of Commons. I don't know what the Duke of Richmond was doing there, but he was blathering in the grossest way about the war and Rawdon hanging that rebel scum, and going on about Rawdon being a disgrace "to his Country and to the Profession of Arms!" He snorted, and then added, "He nearly jumped a foot when he looked about and saw Rawdon, standing there listening!"

"Good God!" Tavington was sorry that John was in Kent, and had missed it. He wanted to know every detail. "What did you do?" he asked Rawdon.

Before the lanky Irishman could reply, Tarleton cried, "He challenged him! Called him out on the spot! Damned dashing of him, with all the politicians and toadies and crabbed old clerks gaping on."

"Yes, I could not let such an insult pass without instantly dealing with it," Rawdon said, very red and indignant himself.

"I should be very happy to stand with you, Rawdon," Tavington assured him forcefully. "And not just because you were so good as to act for me in a similar case. All of us who fought in America and know America must support each other against such outrages!"

Tarleton nearly spit out a mouthful of tea, laughing. "Won't be necessary, my dear friend."

"What do you mean?"

Looking very vexed, Rawdon explained. "The coward stood looking at me with eyes bugged out, and then gabbled an apology! Said he was sorry to have distressed me. Said I had misunderstood what he had just declared in front of half the members! Groveled away like a worm, and so—no duel."

"He just—apologized?"

Mary Robinson remarked, straight-faced, "How very civilized of him. Fighting is so untidy and disagreeable."

Another howl of laughter from Tarleton. Rawdon began to chuckle. Tavington did not think it all that amusing, but smiled civilly. "A despicable creature. 'The Profession of Arms,' indeed! What would_ he_ know about it? He wouldn't know a bayonet from an olive pick!"

"Yes, he would," Mary Robinson disagreed. "Bayonets are bigger."

More laughter. Tavington laughed himself, rather reluctantly. He heard more of the details, but as there would be no duel by dawn in this case, he decided it was time to report to Jane. After another half-hour of soldier's gossip, he took his leave. He kissed Mrs. Robinson's hand in farewell, thinking it best he not return. An hour's interlude was all very pleasant, but he had been lucky in avoiding discovery, and he needed his luck for other things too much right now to waste any more on the fair Perdita.

Once home, Tavington took Jane into the study and confessed that his idea of Mrs. Robinson being involved in their mystery was mistaken. "A blind alley, I'm afraid." He added, "I think the woman might have owed Mamma some money, but I never saw a note signed by her, and it seemed best not to take up the hint with no proof."

"Certainly not," Jane agreed.

"But you must hear what Tarleton and Rawdon had to tell me!" He briefly recounted the Duke of Richmond's insults, Rawdon's challenge, and the nobleman's craven capitulation.

"How can he bear the humiliation?" Jane wondered in disbelief.

Tavington shrugged. "What can it matter to him? At the end of the day, he's still a Duke, even if he's a sniveling poltroon. His position in society is unassailable. He's immune from disgrace, more or less. I hate the swine and his vile Fox nephews, too."

"Oh—you have a letter, William. It is on the tray over there."

He nearly gave her an impulsive kiss, feeling a little ashamed of his afternoon's escapade, but then thought better of it. Mary Robinson had been wearing a light but unusual scent. It would not do for Jane to smell another's woman's perfume on him. He would have a bath tonight. He said as much to Jane while breaking the seal on his letter. He recognized neither the seal nor the writing, but was arrested by the content.

_My dear Colonel Tavington,_

_It has come to the attention of my associates and myself that you may have some papers that would be of interest to us. Others have approached you, but we have reason to believe that you have not settled with those applicants. Perhaps their offers have not been to your liking. Do nothing rash, I entreat you, until we have had an opportunity to present you with our own terms. Leave your reply with the landlord of the Cheshire Cheese. You will find us liberal men of business, if you do not do us the discourtesy of attempting to ignore this friendly overture._

_Your obedient servant,_

_Harmodius_

Tavington groaned. Jane was concerned, and asked immediately, "What is it? What is wrong?"

He considered lying about it, but that would be unfair to her. She ought to know something of their situation. "Here, read it for yourself."

She did, and frowned, "A vague promise, and a not-so-veiled threat. 'Harmodius?' What sort of name is that? A pseudonym, surely?"

"Yes, of course," he answered impatiently, In fact, it had taken him a minute to remember who in the world Harmodius had been. Then he remembered his Herodotus, and the two famous tyrants-slayers of ancient Athens: Harmodius and Aristogeiton. Radical Whigs, then, or worse—out and out Republicans, seeking to undermine the Crown.

"Those papers of your mother's must really pertain to someone in the royal family," Jane said slowly. "But to whom?"

"I would still put my money on the Prince of Wales. He's already known to be so disreputable that it is not hard to imagine him involved in something genuinely scandalous."

"How would your mother obtain any of his papers?"

"I've no idea. It must have been before we arrived. I'll continue to trace her movements and I'll see if any of the Prince's other fair companions may have some information."

"Well, at least, you were able to visit with Lord Rawdon and Colonel Tarleton today. Your visit to the Fair Perdita was not a_ total_ loss."

He grimaced. "No, indeed."

* * *

**Note.** The reason for Lady Melbourne's contemptuous remark about surgeons is that in the 18th century, physicians enjoyed a higher status than surgeons. What surgeons did looked suspiciously like work, and thus their status as gentlemen could be questioned. 

The name "Perdita" means "She who is lost" or "A lost girl." Perdita was the role Mary Robinson played in a version of Shakespeare's_ A Winter's Tale,_ in which Perdita is the long-lost daughter of a king.

**Do leave a review. It makes me write faster.**

******Next—Entrances and Exits**


	65. Entrances and Exits

**Chapter 65: Entrances and Exits **

Emily Martingale, her daughter Fanny, and Fanny's nursemaid Sally duly stepped down from Sir John Tavington's coach, and were given a warm welcome. Jane thought John's fiancée very pretty indeed, in a pleasant, unintimidating way. The little girl was enchanting, even tired out with her long journey. John apologized repeatedly, but had to depart almost immediately to attend a session at the Commons, leaving his intended and her daughter with his sisters and his sister-in-law.

"Your house is very tall," Fanny informed Jane seriously, as they climbed the wide staircase. The child stopped and stared in awe up at the light slanting through the oval oculus. "That's pretty."

Ash was baffled at first by the presence of a little girl who was not Susan Bordon, and then grew very excited about showing her all the treasures of the nursery. She, in turn, showed him Princess Sally Augusta, her beautiful doll. Ash perceived the doll as a particularly grand sort of puppet, and the Princess seemed destined to be the heroine of all sorts of thrilling adventures.

A very nice nursery tea was laid out, and Jane smiled when Fanny proposed to Ash that they should play that she was the Mamma, and he was the Papa, and the two little babies were their children.

"If I were a Papa, I'd give them a whipping!" Ash declared. "They can't do _anything!"_

"No whipping the babies, Ash," Jane interposed, very severely.

"Oh, no!" Fanny reproved Ash, wide-eyed. "No whippings! Do let's have tea now. I shall pour. Do you take sugar, Mr. Ash?"

Jane watched for a while, amused, while Fanny attempted to imitate her mother, carefully pouring the weak, milky tea. Ash happily devoured his share of the treats. Emily looked about her with pleasure.

"This is a charming nursery. And what handsome boys! The golden-haired child is your brother, I understand. And also—that little boy?"

"No," smiled Jane, unsurprised at Emily's wrong guess. "_There_ is my brother, Tom Rutledge. He takes after his father, just as Ash resembles his mother. This is my little son, William Francis."

William Francis, hearing his name spoken in his mother's voice, looked around eagerly and began crawling over to her with amazing speed. Jane lifted him up into her arms and kissed him.

Emily reached out to stroke his silky hair. "What a sweet boy! There is something remarkably intelligent in his eyes."

"He does seem very quick," agreed Jane, very satisfied with her companion. Jane thought William Francis showed remarkable intelligence, herself.

"And his eyes are green," observed Emily, admiring. "Such a pretty, unusual color. How proud you must be of him, Mrs. Tavington."

"Indeed I am, Mrs. Martingale. I am proud of all my boys—however, they can make quite a bit of noise, and so I have arranged this little room here--" she said, leading the way to a door that let off from the nursery. "I thought Fanny and her nurse might want a quiet, private place to sleep."

"That is most thoughtful of you," said Emily, approving of the cozy white room.

They watched the children at their tea a little longer. Fanny was very tired, and after hunger was satisfied, she was more than willing to nap. In fact, there were naps all around, while Jane showed Emily over the house, and welcomed her to her own guest chamber with a certain pride. _No musty mattresses or unaired rooms while I am mistress here! _she thought to herself, enjoying Emily's thanks and compliments at her accommodations. Mrs. Martingale had no ladies' maid of her own, and Jane told the chambermaid to look after their guest, and then left her to change into fresh garments and to wash herself with the luxurious amounts of hot water Jane had provided.

"Do join us in the drawing room—just below—when you are refreshed, Mrs. Martingale."

In the drawing room, her two sisters-in-law were on the yellow brocade sofa, heads together in gossip. Caroline was telling Penelope all about her journey, her words tumbling over each other in her eagerness. "--Such an interesting country! I had never seen anything so flat. It can look very mysterious, however, when the mist rises. I am so glad I could go! The Clarkes are the loveliest people—very courteous, but entirely without vanity or pretension. John could not ally himself with better-tempered people. Little Fanny is an angel—I quite dote on her—oh, Jane! Is Fanny comfortable in the nursery?"

"Yes, both she and her mother seemed pleased. Fanny had some tea, and now is having a nap. Mrs. Martingale will be with us shortly."

"I cannot wait for Lucy to meet her!" Caroline declared.

"Oh, yes!" agreed Penelope. "Just think! I never dreamed John would find someone, but here is the lady, and before we know it, John and she will be settled in a nest of their own. I wish we could go to Wargrave and show it to Mrs. Martingale. She should see the wonderful house that is to be hers—" Penelope stopped, and glanced guiltily at Jane.

"I am not upset, Penelope," Jane assured her. "I have long since accepted that Wargrave is not mine. I am very glad, however, that I had a hand in making it presentable now that John is to be married. The new housekeeper will be a great help to Mrs. Martingale. I agree with you—it would be lovely if she and her daughter could make the trip to Essex. Of course, in the spring it will be so much more beautiful."

"Indeed it will!" agreed Caroline. "John told me he has ordered a phaeton for his new bride, for use out in the country. She will be able to take the air in comfort, and little Fanny with her—"

"—And no doubt there will soon be a pony for Fanny to ride!" Penelope added.

Emily soon found her way to the drawing room, and a very lively conversation about the wedding plans ensued. Because the parties were both in mourning, the wedding would be a very quiet affair. Only their close family members would be present, and no wedding trip was planned, to the ladies' disappointment. John would simply take his bride and stepdaughter to their new house in London—wherever it might be—and settle in to domestic life right away.

Her future sisters-in-law were a little concerned that she would not have all the amusements and ceremonies usually attendant on a wedding, but Emily shook her head.

"You must remember that I have been married once already. What a to-do it was! We had a huge wedding breakfast, and Mr. Martingale and I went to Harrowgate for a month. I had a gorgeous gown to be married in, and every frippery and foible a new bride could ask—and none of it really mattered, because in the end we were no more married than many another, and then—" her voice trailed off, as her face grew sad.

Jane immediately stepped in to help her. "Of course you should have just the wedding that you want. I can understand that you might want everything to be different this time. But will you be married in black?"

"Oh—not that day, no. I shall have something made in a soft grey, I think, or white with black. The following day, of course, I shall go into full mourning, out of respect for your mother. That is another reason why Sir John and I thought it best not to make a great show and fuss over the wedding."

"Very proper," Caroline observed.

The Protheroes arrived, and Emily was introduced. There was more talk, and some friendly laughter, and it seemed to Jane that Emily was fitting in very nicely with the family. She was not a lady of intellectual gifts, nor did she seem passionate about music or art or letters, but she was a pleasant-spoken woman, with good manners and a gentle air, who could listen as well as talk.

Jane remembered what William had told her about the woman's history. _She is not new to London life, after all. She has experienced living in the circles of the rich and fashionable, before her husband went through their money and she fell into poverty. None of this is entirely foreign to her, as it was to me. In a way, she is returning to something with which she was once familiar. I suppose she is likely to keep her head, even restored to wealth and position, now knowing how easily it can be lost. Lady Tavington! It sounds rather grand. She will wear the title, I think, very honorably._

John returned, running up the steps to rejoin his beloved, beaming and smirking like Shakespeare's "smug bridegroom." It was very amusing to see him so artlessly happy, and he bore the shafts of wit broken over his unresisting head with great good humor. He was full of questions about Fanny. Did she like the nursery? Was she getting on with the boys? Was Emily comfortable? Was she _very_ tired after their journey?

Reassured on all these points, he accepted a cup of tea from Jane, still overflowing with happiness. He drank his tea, his eyes fixed on Emily, who looked back with blushes and radiant smiles.

"I heard from Wealdon about the house in Berkeley Square. We can go have a look at it tomorrow. Sounds a perfect place, and with a very long lease offered. If it suits, I had better snap it up."

Tavington came home, and after seconding Jane's welcome to Emily Martingale, took his brother aside for a brief conversation.

"Were you followed?"

"Not sure. If we were, it wasn't obvious. There might have been someone who passed us on the road, and loitered near Pilchards. Anyway, no one challenged us. Will—Fanny was such a good girl in the coach. Emily and Caro got on splendidly. Nothing could have been better. I hope Fanny gets on with the boys—"

"So do I. Seriously, John, I must tell you that I've been all over town, trying to discover what Mamma's wretched documents may be about, and I've had no success at all. I thought perhaps it might have something to do with the Prince of Wales, since he's up to his ears in scandal, but Mamma seems to have had no contact with any of his mistresses—"

John grinned, and lowered his voice. "Did you visit them all?"

"Don't look at me like that," Tavington growled, feeling somewhat guilty, "I spoke to Mrs. Robinson. She met Mamma all of twice. I made some other inquiries, and it appears that Mrs. Elliott never met her at all—and as for the others—none of them moved in spheres that Mamma frequented."

"Well," John considered, his eyes on Emily across the room, "there are plenty of other possibilities. There is little reason to think that Mamma had much—or any—acquaintance with the Prince of Wales, after all. I think it must be something that happened earlier. There was a rumor that the Duke of Cumberland married a clergyman's daughter—" He was distracted by a sweet smile, and walked away.

"Wait, John—" Tavington called, exasperated. "Oh, I give up!"

Jane came to his side, very amused. "It's useless to talk business with your brother at the moment. He's utterly besotted. It's so touching—and Mrs. Martingale seems equally fond of him. How happy they shall be! He mentioned a house in Berkeley Square they were to look at. I wish they could be nearer."

"Well, if something is available in Mortimer Square I have not heard about it. We can't very well go from house to house, suggesting the neighbors remove themselves for our convenience!"

They laughed together, and Tavington offered Jane his arm as they rejoined the rest of the party.

-----

Lord Fanshawe warned Letty that the de Veres were coming for the Season. They were taking a house of their own, but would stay with Lord and Lady Fanshawe for a week, while the rented house was brought up to their exacting standards. The ball to be given at Fanshawe house in two weeks was the proximate cause of their arrival. Clothes in the latest mode would be ordered, their own friends visited, and the money the Honorable James de Vere had received in return for marrying the rich and chilly Miss Winstone would be spent judiciously in creating the most show at the least cost.

The de Veres arrived at Fanshawe House with a great deal of pomp and ceremony. Letty did her best to welcome them, but they were as impenetrably cold to her as they had been at Salton Park. Not rude, indeed: Lord Fanshawe was watchful for any slight to his lady. The de Veres' manners were faultless, but Letty was discovering that it was possible for manifest enemies to be irreproachably polite. Their smiles did not reach their eyes. Their professions of service and familial duty were all that was formal and insincere.

Harmonia had never met them before, and after the first fifteen minutes was genuinely frightened. A month ago, she had hoped to find an ally in the de Veres against all the injustices she had perceived to have been visited upon her. Now, however, she felt very differently. The death of Lady Carteret lay heavy on her conscience. Lady Fanshawe had proved to be a kind friend, and Harmonia realized how desperately she needed a friend. The Honorable James de Vere bowed and looked through her as if she mattered no more than a dog. His wife eyed her with scorn, and Harmonia knew at once that the lady considered Harmonia an unwanted addition to the household—a penniless intruder, a "ward" whose family resemblance branded her a bastard and a disgrace. When the three ladies sat alone together, Mrs. de Vere's sly insinuations made her contempt too obvious for Harmonia to harbor even a shred of hope that she could make herself this woman's friend.

Lord Fanshawe was a tyrant, certainly: but he was a benevolent tyrant who supported her in lavish style. As long as he was obeyed, he would be generous in every material way. Lady Fanshawe had been kind to Harmonia after Lady Carteret's horrible death, and was allowing Harmonia join her in the lovely Painted Parlor. Lord and Lady Fanshawe together were planning a ball to present Harmonia to society, and while nothing had been said about settling any specific sum on his "ward," it was generally expected that Lord Fanshawe would treat any acceptable applicant for Harmonia's hand in his customary liberal way.

Now Harmonia found herself thinking about how very old Lord Fanshawe was, and what might happen if he died and her guardianship passed to his son. Mr. de Vere did not demean himself to address a word to Harmonia himself. His lady, however, when the three women sat together in the drawing room, took it upon herself to give her opinion to Lady Fanshawe in Harmonia's presence about a fitting situation for "the girl" now that her education was complete.

"Of course, without experience she cannot expect a position in the first circles, but perhaps through one of the employment agencies she might find some old countrywoman who desires a companion, or a family of modest means in need of a nursery governess—"

Harmonia trembled at the idea, seeing in a flash herself banished to a poky attic room somewhere in Yorkshire. Letty thought Mrs. de Vere was a very nasty woman, but kept her face calm as she replied, "Lord Fanshawe has said nothing about sending Harmonia away. It is his wish that she live with us. Since he is planning a ball for her seventeenth birthday, I cannot imagine he intends to make a servant of her."

"His lordship gives frequent entertainments. It is hard to believe that this ball is planned in Miss James' honor."

Harmonia fidgeted restlessly in her chair. Letty gave her a quelling look and said, "Perhaps not just for her. It is also to mark our going into half-mourning. However, Harmonia's coming-out coincides nicely with that. Harmonia will lead the dancing, and has a lovely dress ordered for the occasion."

Mrs. de Vere made a faintly disgusted sound of acknowledgment, and fell silent, examining some of the more expensive artifacts in the drawing room. Letty was nervous underneath her calm exterior, but thought of her sister and tried to be brave. What would Jane say?

"How are your little boys, Mrs. de Vere? Have you heard from young Mr. de Vere at Eton? He is such a handsome, well-bred boy."

Not even this question could thaw Mrs. de Vere's glacial demeanour. "I thank you. My sons are all very well."

Another silence. Letty forced herself to speak again. "Since you have arrived on a Monday, you should know that Harmonia and I always have a music lesson and an Italian lesson, starting at noon. Mr. Bellini, our singing master, will be arriving soon. Do you think you might wish to join us in the Painted Parlor?"

Harmonia roused herself, round eyes wider than ever, and sat on her hands to prevent herself making pleading gestures. It was unnecessary. Mrs. de Vere sneered. "I think not."

"Just as you please," Letty said sweetly. "We are sorry to leave you, but we must go if we are to be in time. If you change your mind, you are quite welcome to join us."

Letty smiled graciously, and pulled Harmonia along, feeling that she had been very clever. She could tell Lord Fanshawe that she had invited Mrs. de Vere to join them, and it would be true. Of course, she knew from their previous acquaintance at Salton Park that Mrs. de Vere would refuse to spend hours studying lessons with an Italian singing master. At any rate, the invitation had been made, and now Letty could escape into music and Italian for the afternoon.

Bellini appeared before them punctually, with a low bow and a flashing smile. "Today I have some music by Signor Piccinni—'_La buona figliuola.'"_

He had a copy for each of them. In handing Letty's to her, he gave her an almost imperceptible wink.

Harmonia looked the piece over, asking, "What is the opera about?"

"Ah, I thought that would amuse you ladies. Goldoni wrote the libretto, and for his source he used Signor Richardson's _Pamela._ See here, the young Cecchina—the 'good girl' of the title—is Pamela."

"How funny!" exclaimed Harmonia, laughing. "Fancy an Italian writing a opera based on an English novel! This is very amusing, is it not, Lady Fanshawe?"

"Very amusing indeed," answered Letty, without thinking. She was studying her own copy, on the second page of which was a short message in pencil, in a hand she had known all her life.

_Dearest Letty,_

_I am in good health, as are all in the household. I miss you terribly and pray every day that we may be reunited._

_Stay well, and know that I am thinking of you._

_Your loving sister,_

_Jane_

Letty caught Bellini's eye and smiled radiantly. "What a good choice of music, Signor," she approved.

----- 

Harmonia climbed the stairs, anxious to tidy herself before dinner. She must not appear blowsy or common before the de Veres. To her vexation, the unpleasant couple had been given bedchambers near to her own, so she tiptoed down the hall, hoping to avoid them. They were in Mrs. de Vere's room, talking in low voices, and Harmonia would have hurried by, had she not been arrested by the lure of her own name.

"—_Miss James,_ indeed! Imagine flaunting a bastard in the face of society! Really, my love, your father goes too far! It is one thing to expect his new lady to endure it—why not? Considering that she comes from nowhere and nothing, and had not a penny to bless herself with. A pretty toy, without breeding or fortune, cannot refuse to countenance such a creature, but to force his own son and heir to notice her! It is an outrage! I say nothing of myself, of course: my sufferings are as nothing compared to _yours_—"

"—my dearest, calm yourself. My father is old and no doubt senile. I sounded the lawyer about it, but he thinks it would be impossible to have him declared _non compos. _I am heartily sorry to disappoint you, but we shall just have to wait for him to die—"

Harmonia froze, listening at the door to the hateful voices. They were low and sibilant, hissing like angry snakes.

"—and she is indeed with child! I cannot be deceived about such things, you know. She is certainly carrying a child, but who can guess how it was fathered—?"

"—oh—it _could_ be my father's I suppose—"

A harsh, mocking laugh. "—no doubt he likes to think so! It would be just the thing to please his pride. It is _possible,_ I suppose, but more likely the brat was got on her by that Italian! It's not to be endured, that a singing-master's bastard will take fifty thousand pounds from our boys!—"

"—I suppose it could be Will Tavington's," generously observed the Honorable James de Vere. "That would be a little better—"

"—but it would still be a cheat and a fraud! It is quite bad enough that your father married her, and removed thirty thousand for the family fortune forever, when he could have had the slut for nine shillings a night!—"

Harmonia flinched, her mouth involuntarily screwing up as if she had tasted poison. _What a foul woman._ She was about to tiptoe away, when she heard something else of interest. If she had learned nothing else in her years at a boarding school, she had learned that while eavesdroppers might hear no good of themselves, they often learned very useful information. Mr. de Vere was speaking now, in low considering whispers.

"—he can't live much longer, I daresay. If she were to predecease him—die in childbirth or what-have-you—the money need not be lost—"

"—well, we can only hope for the best!"

"—whereas, if he dies and she inherits—well, even if she were to die in childbirth, and even if the child were to die too, I suppose it would all go to her sister—"

"—and her brothers, too," added Mrs. de Vere in fierce resentment. "She has a pair of little brothers that came to live with the Tavingtons a few months ago! Ha! They're probably those Colonial girls' bastards, and they're passing them off as their brothers now. The younger one has dark hair, and is probably Lady Fanshawe's— and everyone has heard how Mrs. Tavington dotes on the older boy—"

A throaty snigger. "—Tavington couldn't afford to be too fastidious. The older girl had twenty thousand. Certainly enough to overlook a few holes in her virtue!"

"—but without proof, it is of no help to _us! _Really, my dearest, isn't there _anything_ we can do about her? Aren't there people to take care of these situations?"

"—now, now, my love, do not concern yourself. I have, in fact, consulted with someone. He stands ready to assist us—"

Footsteps were thudding up the stairs. Harmonia twitched like a frightened hare, and then hurried soundlessly to her room and shut the door behind her.

-----

Letty had had enough of them after only one day. Dinner was torture, sitting with Mr. de Vere at her right hand, enduring his silent contempt, his refusal to speak to her, his significant glances exchanged with his dreadful wife. However, dinner, while unpleasant, was not irredeemable. There were Lord Fanshawe's old gentlemen friends, and the usual secretaries and hangers-on to keep the conversation flowing. Lord Fanshawe himself was not as talkative as usual. Letty eyed him with concern. Perhaps he had pulled a muscle in his left arm. She saw him rub it, looking uncomfortable. Perhaps he would be too tired to come to her tonight.

Once in the drawing room after dinner, it was once again Letty, Harmonia, and Mrs. de Vere. Letty, feeling braver after a glass of wine, decided to let Mrs. de Vere sit in splendid isolation, since she was too grand to converse with Letty or Harmonia.

"Such delightful music we had today, Harmonia. We should practice the aria Signor Bellini assigned us, don't you think? Excuse us, Mrs. de Vere, while we look at our music." She went to the instrument and leafed through the songs.

_"My Dearest Letty--"_

Harmonia was dying to tell Letty what the de Veres were saying. As they sat down at the instrument, she whispered, "I heard them talking. They were saying horrible things about you."

"Hush, Harmonia. You mustn't tattle. I know they dislike me."

"But you should know—"

There was no time to finish the sentence. The gentlemen arrived, and Lord Fanshawe was commanding them to make music. Harmonia was terribly disappointed, but supposed that her horrid gossip would keep another day. 

Letty sang for some time that evening. Harmonia played the accompaniments. Letty did not think she played as well as Jane, but she had quite a bit of facility and good execution. Their efforts were well applauded, and it was nearly eleven before the guests were gone, and the de Veres retired for the night.

Harmonia was sent off to bed with a light embrace from Letty and a civil, if brief, compliment from Lord Fanshawe. She left reluctantly, planning to tell Lady Fanshawe what the de Veres had said as soon as she could the following morning.

Fanshawe gave his lady his arm and they ascended the broad stairs to their apartments. He bowed to Letty at her door.

"I shall join you presently, Madam. And if you would, I should like the costume of pale blue gauze. It is particularly nymph-like."

"As you wish, my lord," Letty agreed.

She entered her apartments, and her maids were up and ready to serve her at once. Listlessly, she allowed them to take down her tall hair arrangement and brush it out into black and shiny waves over her shoulders. She relayed Lord Fanshawe's orders as to her night-dress, and the filmy garment was produced—a nearly transparent fancy, but one she did not like dislike. It was simply a Greek-style garment, pinned at the shoulders with golden dragonflies, and with golden ribbons wrapped under her breasts and around her waist, the two ends falling in a loose knot. There were no wings to dig into her shoulders as she lay on her back, and no heavy headdress to make her temples throb. She allowed the maids to remove her slippers and stockings, since the costume demanded her feet be bare. She would be glad when she could get into bed and off the cold floor. She must not do that yet, for Lord Fanshawe liked to see and admire her before she rumpled herself lying down. The maids were dismissed, and Letty studied herself in the mirror. The sheer dress was like nakedness, but prettier, she supposed. Wearily, she stepped up onto the dais in the privacy of the bedroom, and struck a pose in front of the black velvet, as she had been instructed. If Lord Fanshawe kept her waiting too long, she would slip on the loose gown of cut grey velvet she had bought and kept in her wardrobe for such situations. It was still winter, after all, and coming out all in goosebumps did not seem to her very nymph-like—at least if the nymphs in the illustrated Mythology in the library were any indication.

Just as she was ready to step down and find her robe, the door opened, and Lord Fanshawe entered, handsomely arrayed in an embroidered banyan. In the flickering candlelight, Letty thought he looked unusually pale, but perhaps that was the paint he always wore.

"Are you well, my lord?' she asked. "I thought you had forgotten me."

"Not at all, not at all, my dear Lady Fanshawe," he said breezily. "A moment's indisposition."

He seated himself to began to admire, studying her, telling her how to move, how to turn and bend, how to display herself most enticingly. Letty smiled and obeyed, and then descended when he had had enough of such amusements.

"Shall I lay down in bed, my lord?" she asked.

He rubbed his arm, wincing. "No, perhaps not. Yes, come closer. I believe I should like you to kneel down, if you would be so good. That would be most gracious, my dear Madam. Here, I shall not be a moment—ah yes, take it thus—delightful—your exquisite mouth--a little harder, I think—"

Letty concentrated on her duty, her knees cushioned only by the carpet. It was not disgusting, but it was not particularly pleasant either. She used her mouth and tongue with care, hoping that she could satisfy him more quickly. She was so cold, and so tired of kneeling, and after five minutes her jaw was beginning to ache. The fire crackled. Letty wished she were closer to it. The house creaked a little with distant footsteps, and from outside trickled in the ever-present sounds of the city. The faint calls and cries blended with the appreciative noises Lord Fanshawe was making. He was paying her compliments, and it did seem he was nearly finished—

"—yes, just a little quicker now, Madam. Quickly, quickly! Put your hands—thus—ah yes. Don't stop—"

Letty felt ridiculous, bobbing noisily, nearly dizzy with her efforts. There was little chance, she supposed, that he would return the favor tonight. He had not done so since they left Salton Park, and perhaps that had only been in honor of the first days of their marriage. She forced herself to maintain the pace, not even flinching when her nipple was tweaked sharply. His lordship's florid compliments were now mere groans of pleasure. Any second now—

"Aaah! Aaah!" The grunts sharpened to a howl. Fanshawe's body convulsed, and he kicked at Letty in a violent muscular spasm. His hands clutched at his chest. His member, still feebly spurting, was pulled from her mouth as he sagged in the chair, his head falling to one side.

Letty sat back on her heels, eyes wide in shock. Her face and gown were soiled. "My lord? Are you all right?"

His face was drawn in a rictus of agony. His eyes were open, staring at her, and Letty though he might say something very cutting. Instead, there was a pause, and then a deep, rattling sigh.

She put out a questing, frightened hand. "My lord? Lord Fanshawe?"

The sapphire blue eyes remained fixed on her, unblinking. Letty touched his face.

_He's dead._

Letty had seen death before, many times. There was no doubt that her husband had suddenly died before her.

Rising to her feet, she stared at him, not sure what to do, half-afraid she might be accused of killing him. Certainly he had died in a moment of extreme pleasure, caused by her services. She scrubbed at her wet chin, and then leaned over, and closed the bright blue eyes with a gentle hand. His breeches were open, and he was exposed. It would be an insult to so dignified a man for the servants to see him thus. Letty gritted her teeth and buttoned him up.

Feeling dazed, she went to the wardrobe and pulled out her thick warm robe. She wanted to get out of her ridiculous gauze costume, but could not do it alone. She went to the door of her dressing room, and hesitated. Then she knocked.

"Veronique, please come and help me get dressed. Lord Fanshawe has died."

There was a silence. Letty tested the words again, whispering, "Lord Fanshawe is dead. He died just now."

A sudden rustle and muttering, then sharp exclamations. In a moment, the door was flung open and Julie and Veronique Maupin stared at her with wild eyes.

"Madame?"

"Madame, you say _Monsieur_ _le Vicomte est mort?"_

_"_I said he's dead," Letty repeated. "I don't understand it when you speak French so quick. He's dead. He died just now. He's in his chair. Please take this thing off of me and help me put on the robe. I'm so cold. Then we must—"

_Must what?_ Letty was not sure. She should call the butler, she supposed. His son must be informed. She must talk to Jane. Jane would bring all the Tavingtons and get Mr. Protheroe, her lawyer, to come. Letty felt better, remembering she had her own man of law to advise her. 

Julie was examining Lord Fanshawe's body. "_Oui._ Dead," she told her sister, who was unpinning the golden dragonflies. "I will ring for Dunner."

"Thank you," murmured Letty, as blessedly warm, thick velvet cascaded over her head. Veronique pulled her into the dressing room and sat her down. In a moment her face was being washed. "Thank you, " Letty said over and over. "That's much better. My slippers are under the bed. My feet are cold."

Her comfortable wing chair could not be drawn near the fire. Letty could not sit in it because Lord Fanshawe's body occupied it. She sat on the edge of the bed while Veronique drew on her slippers. There was a hesitant knock at the door to the boudoir, and Julie opened it. Letty could hear her urgent whispers to the butler.

"Milord Fanshawe is dead. Come—look into the bedroom. See--he sits dead in his chair."

Out of the corner of her eye, Letty could see the handsome butler craning to peer at his master's lifeless form. It seemed too much trouble to turn her head and look properly.

"My lady?" called Dunner. "Are you all right?"

Julie hissed back, "We shall take care of Madame. You go tell the son that his father is dead. Someone must carry _Monsieur le Vicomte_ away. He cannot remain sitting in Madame's chamber like that. It is too macabre."

Dunner hurried away, and Julie shut the door.

Letty forced herself to speak. "Throw that horrible rag away. I never want to see it again!"

"_Quoi?_ This?"

"Yes. Take it away."

"You do not mind if we—"

"I don't care what you do with it. It's filthy. I don't want to see it."

The fragile garment was whisked away to the dressing room. Veronique came back and had another whispered conference with her sister.

Veronique leaned over Letty. "Madame, we shall ring for something warm for you to drink. Some warm wine—better than tea, I think—"

"Just as you like."

Everything was very slow. Before the warm drink could arrive, Letty heard a heavy tread outside her door, and deep male voices.

Julie opened the door to James de Vere, holding a candle. He swiftly strode through the darkened boudoir and in a moment was blinking against the brighter light in Letty's bedchamber.

"Where is my father?"

Hardly deigning to look at Letty, he shoved past the maids and stood staring at the slumped figure in the wing chair.

"Father! Sir!" He leaned closer. "He looks like he's asleep," the man muttered.

"He is dead," Julie corrected him in a flat tone.

"Surely not—he was quite all right at dinner—quite himself. Here—let me see for myself—"

De Vere examined the dead man minutely, and then put his ear to his father's slightly opened mouth. "I think he's breathing!" he muttered. He felt inside the embroidered banyan. "His heart is still beating—very faintly—no, not dead yet—"

"He's not dead?" Letty cried. "That's not possible. I saw him die!" She slid from the bed and stumbled toward the chair. "Let me see!"

"Back, Madam!" cried de Vere, preventing her with an outflung arm. "You can do him no good. He must have a physician—yes—" he said, half to himself. "A physician." More loudly he declared. "The fault is not yours, Madam. A mistake easily made. The shock--You must not exert yourself in your condition. Dunner!" he shouted at the butler. "Call my valet and my footman. We shall carry my father back to his room and put him to bed. I shall summon a physician forthwith."

"I can call Collinet, my lord's valet, too," Dunner offered.

"No—no need," ordered de Vere. "Just my own people. Quick, man! Lord Fanshawe's life hangs in the balance!"

Dunner was gone, running up the stairs.

The three women stared at him suspiciously. De Vere bowed to his stepmother, with an attempt at his father's suave manner. "I pray you not be alarmed, Lady Fanshawe. Everything that can be done, shall be done for my father. In the meantime, I pray you, rest for your health's sake. I will apprise you of developments in the morning."

"But he's _dead,"_ Letty objected, still bewildered by the son's peculiar assertions.

"Such a fit must have been a great shock to a young lady," de Vere said, unable to suppress a faint smirk. The two Frenchwomen began to position themselves between their mistress and this madman. Did he think them fools? They had seen for themselves that _Monsieur le Vicomte_ was dead. What was he playing at?

A pair of tall menservants strode in, with a bewildered Dunner behind them.

"Take him up in the chair," de Vere directed. "It will be easier for him. We shall take him directly to his own room like that. Ford, I'll be sending you out to find the physician I heard of—just the man for such a crisis—come along now—"

The two servants lifted the chair. Lord Fanshawe's body flopped bonelessly as the chair was raised and then eased through the doorway.

"Sleep well, Madam," said de Vere, over his shoulder, as he faded into the shadows of the hall.

Helplessly, Dunner looked again at Letty.

"He's _dead."_ Letty repeated. "I saw him die. I want to send a note to my sister."

"Can't send a note to her, my lady. Lord Fanshawe's orders."

"But he's _dead. _I need to see my sister."

"Mr. de Vere says he's not, my lady. Best to see what the doctor has to say."

Julie waved him away in disgust. She shut the door.

"Yes, Madame. You should lie down and rest. That much is true. The drink comes soon."

"I want to be awake when the doctor comes. It's so silly. There's nothing a doctor can do. He's _dead."_

"The doctor will tell him so, and then he will believe it. That one, he does not believe what a woman says to him," remarked Veronique, very cynically.

Letty was persuaded to get into bed and be covered with her warm eiderdown. The drink came. Julie regarded it with disdain, adding some spice from the Maupin girls' own store in the dressing room. "Drink, Madame. It will warm you."

It did help. Letty sipped it in silence, while the maids conferred again in rapid French. Within half an hour, there was a faint echo downstairs.

"That was the front door."

"_Oui._ It must be the doctor," offered Julie.

There was more muttered talk outside, and more delays. Finally, Letty could not wait any longer, and slid out of bed.

"I must know what is happening."

Her maids followed her out of her apartments and down the hall, now noisy with servants. The door to Lord Fanshawe's suite was shut, and the butler guarded it.

"My lady, the doctor is with Lord Fanshawe and Mr. and Mrs. de Vere. Doctor said he mustn't be disturbed."

"But he's my _husband,"_ Letty objected meekly.

"Mr. de Vere said it was too much for you. Wouldn't be good for you to be in a sick room—seeing as how—" the servant blushed and tore his gaze from Letty's still slim waist. "Anyways, you're not to be upset and bothered, they said."

The Frenchwomen were about to assail the luckless man with some choice insults, when the door opened, and Letty heard the doctor chatting amicably with the de Veres.

"An interesting case. I am obliged to you for your confidence."

"We must see that everything humanly possible is done for my father," replied de Vere, very earnestly.

"Of course, and also for his lady," the doctor agreed. He emerged from the room, and Letty saw him clearly.

It was Doctor Malahyde.

-----

Next—**Locked Doors  
**


	66. Locks and Bolts

**Chapter 66: Locks and Bolts**

Harmonia opened her eyes to dim grey light. It must be very early. She sat up and peered through the bed curtains. The maid had not come to open the curtains, nor to make up her fire. She listened, and heard an unusual amount of activity in the hallway. What was going on? She rang for the maid, wanting to get dressed. There was her news--the appalling way that the de Veres had spoken of Lady Fanshawe. Harmonia was bursting with it. She must see Lady Fanshawe without delay and tell her!

She got up, went to the window, and pushed the draperies aside. A thin cold drizzle was dotting her window and coating the pavement outside with a slick glaze. People were up and about? What time was it? Where was the maid? Useless people. Lady Fanshawe ought not to put up with such slovenliness. Such a noise in the hall. Was something going on with the de Veres?

The cold was oozing through the walls, and Harmonia climbed back into bed, pulling up the covers while she waited for service. The nearest book was one that her guardian had given her, wanting her to improve her mind: Mr. Pope's poems. Bored, Harmonia pick up the volume, which opened to "_Eloisa to Abelard."_

_"Now warm in love, now with'ring in thy bloom,  
Lost in a convent's solitary gloom!"_

Silly stuff. Why didn't Eloisa just run away from the convent? The door opened. At last!

"I've been waiting and waiting--" she began complaining to a maid she did not know. Then she saw that the girl was carrying a tray.

The maid bobbed, not looking at her. "Your breakfast, Miss. You're not to leave your room today."

"What do you mean?" cried Harmonia, jumping out of bed. "Who has ordered such a thing?"

"Mrs. de Vere, Miss. His lordship is sick and the doctor's been here all night. "Tis a bedlam in the house. Lady Fanshawe is ill too, and in her room. Mrs. de Vere says you are to take your meals here until everything is in order." The girl was ashamed to quote the terrible Mrs. de Vere more accurately.

"That's ridiculous. Here, don't go. I need you to help me get dressed."

The girl hesitated, but the young lady was insistent, and so she remained to lace the stays in the back and to assist Harmonia into her warmest gown.

"What about my hair?" Harmonia demanded, looking at the rat's nest on her head in despair.

"Don't know anything about hair, Miss," the girl replied, apologetically. "I'm just a housemaid, Miss."

"Well, it is never too late to learn. Here is my brush. Start with the ends and then work your way up."

While the girl brushed out Harmonia's hair, she proved a useful source of information.

"What is the matter with Lord Fanshawe?" Harmonia asked directly.

"Don't rightly know, Miss. He took sick in the night when he was with Lady Fanshawe. She called the butler." The girl lowered her voice and whispered. "Lady Fanshawe thought he was dead, and so did her maids, but Mr. de Vere said he was in a swoon, and that Doctor called it—" the girl's face twisted with effort "—a cata--cata--oh, a fit, anyway. "Twas that. So the doctor and Mr. de Vere ordered Lady Fanshawe away because of the baby—" here the girl blushed, "Beg pardon, Miss."

"Oh, don't be silly. I know that Lady Fanshawe is with child. I'll go see her after you finish my hair."

"Oh, you mustn't do that, Miss. Mrs. de Vere says you're to stay here. Lady Fanshawe isn't to be disturbed after the shock his lordship gave her last night."

"Lady Fanshawe will want to see _me,_" Harmonia answered confidently. "And I need you to make up the fire here, too. I suppose everything is in confusion because Lord Fanshawe's illness."

"That's right, Miss. Mr. Dunner don't know what to think. I heard him say to Monsewer Collinet—that's his lordship's valet—that his lordship looked _dead_ to him when he looked in Lady Fanshawe's chamber. And Monsewer is that put out that they won't let him tend his master. Very insulting, to be sure. And her ladyship fainted when she saw the doctor, or so I'm told."

"Lady Fanshawe doesn't much like doctors," Harmonia remembered. "She's still upset about that quack who killed Lady Carteret—that Doctor Malahyde."

The girl stopped brushing, and looked frightened.

"Don't stop, you've nearly finished. Hand me those pins—what's the matter with you?"

"Oh, Miss!" the girl whispered, "That's who it is—that doctor—I heard Mr. Dunner speak of him as Doctor Malahyde."

"What!"

"I must go!" the girl cried, dropping the heavy silver hairbrush. "I shall get such a scolding for being late!"

"Here, now! Wait! What about my fire?—"

It was too late. The girl had fled out the door, and Harmonia decided she had better have her breakfast before it froze. She lifted the cover, and discovered it was nothing but tea and porridge. She sniffed in annoyance, but it seemed probable that this was all there would be for some time, so she ate hungrily. She was still cold, and so retrieved a cloak from her wardrobe. It was heavy blue velvet, but the chill still struggled to penetrate it.

No one came for the next hour. There was no fire, and no hot water. Harmonia listened at the door until there was quiet, and then she cautiously opened it a crack and peered out. She saw no one. If she could get to Lady Fanshawe's room on the floor below, she could find out more of what was going on. Lady Fanshawe must be very upset to know that that horrible man was in her house. It was scandalous of Mr. and Mrs. de Vere to order everyone about so!

She would look silly wearing the cloak in the house, so she reluctantly dropped it into a chair by the door. Slipping out of the room, she shut the door softly behind her, and glided to the top of the stairs. She must be careful of the third step. That always squeaked a little, she had discovered. She ducked and looked below at the hall that led to Lord and Lady Fanshawe's apartments. Crouched on the stairs, she could see a footman on guard outside Lord Fanshawe's door. There were people coming and going. How would she get past them?

She came down a few more stairs and heard raised voices. Lady Fanshawe was quarrelling with someone.

"—No! Get out of my room! Leave me alone!—"

There were more raised voices and a deep one, giving orders. There was a thumping, rumbling noise, as if furniture was being moved about, and then the sharp sound of a scream.

"Help! Help me! Let go! Oh, my God!—"

Harmonia jumped to her feet and ran down the steps. A servant's voice behind her cried out in anger, but Harmonia ignored him and rushed to Lady Fanshawe's boudoir door, shoving to get in and see what was happening.

Why were men so tall? Two big footmen were standing in front of her, but in between, she could see Mr. de Vere and Doctor Malahyde dragging Lady Fanshawe into her bedchamber, while she screamed and struggled. Mrs. de Vere was there, smiling a little and nodding, looking pleased with all these mad goings-on. Dunner, the butler, was looking on, and did not seem happy with what he was seeing.

Harmonia called out, "What are you doing? What are you doing to Lady Fanshawe! Let go of her!"

Letty heard her and screamed out, "Harmonia! Help me! They want to bleed me! Help!"

She was dragged away, and the door slammed. Harmonia backed away as the footmen turned, looking as surprised as if a lapdog had dared to bark at them. Mrs. de Vere's furious glare was fixed on her.

"You wretched girl! Get back to your room! You were told to stay out of the way! You, take the girl back to her room and lock her in! Instantly!"

She was not allowed the dignity of walking. One of the footman heaved her up over his shoulder, and he and his mate laughed coarsely at her wriggling and protests. Her captor ran easily up the stairs and shrugged her down onto the floor of her room. She stumbled and ended up face-down.

Another leer and a chuckle. "Reckon she fell the wrong way. On her back is more what I'd fancy!"

"Shut your face, Tim," his friend advised, chuckling himself. The door slammed and the lock clicked. Harmonia jumped to her feet and gave the door a hard kick. Raucous laughs followed, and faded away.

It felt like an hour had passed. Harmonia did not have a watch of her own, and could not begin to guess the time. It was very cold. She huddled in her bed, trying to think what to do. Mrs. de Vere did not like her. What if she never sent any food up again? Did she mean for Harmonia to starve? The conversation of the day before ran through her mind. Were they plotting to kill Lady Fanshawe while Lord Fanshawe lay sick and helpless? Maybe if she could get to Lord Fanshawe, he would help—

No—if were laying insensible in a fit of some sort, he could do nothing. Besides, Harmonia would not dare force her way into _his_ room. It just seemed indecent, somehow. If only she had made friends among the servants! Reluctantly, she acknowledged that none of them would like her now. She must get away and tell someone about Lady Fanshawe, but whom?

_Mrs. Tavington!_

She would be furious if she knew someone was hurting her sister. Harmonia was afraid of the hot-tempered Mrs. Tavington, whom she knew did not like her, either, but if it were a question of Lady Fanshawe's life—

All right. She knew where Mrs. Tavington lived—Number Twelve, Mortimer Square. Could she send a message?

No. There was no one she could trust with a message. She would have to go by herself. To do that, she must get out of the house, and get to Mortimer Square from Fanshawe House. She knew the address, and had been there a number of times, but always by carriage. She could not find it if she had to walk. She could not possibly walk so far, anyway. Which way was Mortimer Square?

Perhaps she had enough money for a hired carriage! She felt in her pocket, and could come up with only a few coins. The rest of her money was put away for safekeeping in Lord Fanshawe's study. It would be impossible to find it in there. Stay! In her jewelry box was a new gold guinea that she had kept because it was so pretty. With something to do, she rummaged through her jewelry box, and dumped much of it into her pocket. She put her gold chain around her neck and slid her ring set with seed pearls onto the middle finger of her right hand. She would need her cloak and her stoutest shoes--

She made her preparations with great excitement, realizing that she was having a real adventure. The first part of her escape was crucial, for she would have but one chance. Beginning it was the one issue that did not much worry her. Among her other accomplishments acquired at boarding school was the art of picking locks with a hairpin. Harmonia selected a pin and bent it with practiced care. At school, she had learned to sneak into the cabinet that contained the sugar and raisins, into her schoolmates' trunks and treasure boxes, into her teachers' private letters. She had felt no guilt in doing this, since she was convinced that nearly all her fellows were doing exactly the same. Louisa Bromley had even picked the lock of the school's front door to run away with her soldier two years before. Harmonia remembered that briefly, and did not allow herself to recall how very badly _that_ adventure had come a-cropper.

Besides, the lock could be picked, because she had _already_ picked it, a few weeks ago when Lord Fanshawe had ordered her to stay in her room. She had picked the lock as an act of defiance, and had paraded up and down the deserted hallway, but had not dared to venture below. It could be done, but she must be certain that there was no one in the hall. Then, she would go down the back stairs, avoiding the servants in front of her guardian's apartments. With luck, she could get down to the first floor, and be out the front door before anyone heard a sound. If she were _very_ lucky, no one would even know she was gone until her next meal was brought, and who knew when _that_ would be?

She lay down in front of the door, peering at the crack of light between the threshold and bottom of the door. She could see no feet. She crawled closer, listening for any sound, half-afraid that someone would suddenly enter and bang her head with the door. She listened, running over the bones of her plan in her mind again and again, and then she rose to her knees and slowly introduced the end of her pin into the keyhole.

The scraping noise seemed fit to raise the house. Harmonia's hands were cold and fumbling, but there was a catch, and a _click! _

Triumphant, Harmonia seized the knob and turned. The door opened silently and she looked out. The hall was empty and silent. Fearfully, she glanced down toward the de Veres' chamber. No doubt they were downstairs, either tormenting Lady Fanshawe or hovering over Lord Fanshawe's sickbed like the vultures they were. Harmonia clutched her bright blue cloak about her, wishing it were grey, or black, or some unobtrusive color, more suited to the heroine of Gothick romance. She listened at the back stairs for any activity, but heard nothing. These stairs were bare and hard, and it was all she could do to descend them quietly. She would not even look down the next hall. To do so would be to risk discovery.

She waited at the landing, listening for footsteps, her heart pounding. She had never been down the back stairs. How narrow and ugly they were! She was so accustomed to the elegance of Fanshawe House that the utilitarian nature of the servants' stairs was something of a surprise to her. There were voices below, and she was poised to dash back upstairs in an instant, but the sounds faded.

Harmonia took a deep breath and went down to the drawing room floor. Here she looked out around the corner of a wall, trying to get her bearings. She was in the back of the house, and next to her would be the end of the ballroom. Oh, her ball! Would it ever take place? Why did Lord Fanshawe have to be sick now, of all times? Would he be angry with her, for disobeying his son and daughter-in-law? Surely he would forgive her, if he understood she was on a mission to rescue his lady.

Her own noble self-sacrifice rose up before her, wrapped in a golden glow. Why, she was a _heroine! _She was risking all to save a friend. Well, perhaps not a friend, _exactly,_ but her guardian's wife, and a very nice woman. That was close enough.

Oh, Heavens! Someone was coming! Not sure which was to go, Harmonia darted down the steps and headed for the ground floor. This was the riskiest part of the journey, for it was very likely that there would be a great deal of movement between the dining room and the kitchens below. Harmonia fled the stairwell and pressed herself against the wall. A manservant in mourning livery stalked pompously, tray in hand, toward the staircase. Harmonia clung to the shadows with her fingernails, willing the man not to look in her direction.

She realized that she was just outside the Painted Parlor. She considered hiding inside. It was such a beautiful room. Her hand reached for the doorknob, when she heard voices within, and she cringed back in fright. It was Mrs. de Vere's voice, sounded very content and confident. Harmonia could not make out the words, but she was sure that if Mrs. de Vere was happy, it could mean no good for anyone else. She slid along the side of the wall, with the back of the great stairs shrouded her from a casual glance. She crouched and looked at the big marble entryway. It looked unnervingly exposed. She could see no one, but if she were spotted, she would have to run fast to get through the door. How did the lock work?

She waited, studying it, and crept out a little farther. Oh, no! Someone was coming to the door! Out of nowhere, a footman appeared, to open the door slightly. Harmonia could hear his low tones, explaining to the unseen caller that the Fanshawes were not receiving, and accepting the caller's card instead. He closed the door and locked it. Harmonia nearly fell over, trying to see what he did, and then the footman deposited the card on the silver receptacle and walked away in the direction of his lordship's study. His back was turned! Harmonia dashed out on tiptoe, hiding behind one pillar and then another. She made a last rush, and was hidden in a corner behind the wall of the entryway. She stared at the heavy double door, and the lock. Now!

The latch was easy, so very easy, but the door was dreadfully heavy. She opened it a little way, and then was through and outside the prison walls and into the cold rain. It occurred to her then, that getting back _in_ might be as difficult as getting _out. _

How did one hire a hack carriage? One had a servant call one, but Harmonia was on her own. She seemed to remember that carriages had always headed left out of the square when they went to Mrs. Tavington's, so she started walking that way, the hood of her cloak pulled down to protect herself from the rain. She did not see any empty carriages. Perhaps if she saw a respectable woman, she could ask directions. It was very inconvenient that it must rain on the day Harmonia had an adventure. How many houses there were in St. James Square, and what a long way to walk!

"Not a fit day for man nor beast, eh, Miss?"

She looked up startled. Two men were looming over her. She nearly started running, until she saw what sat between them. A sedan chair! Harmonia had never traveled in one. It looked very small, but it would get her out of the wet.

"Spoil yer fine cloak in this muck, Miss," said the second man. His breath was foul and most of his teeth were missing, but he grinned cheerfully. "Couple o' bob to take you anywhere in Lunnon!"

"I don't know how much a 'bob' is," she replied, feeling warily in her pocket for her jumble of coins, "but I would like to hire your chair, yes. Do you know Mortimer Square?"

The first, taller man, waved his arms in indignation. "Do we know Mortimer Square? What kind o' thing to say is that? O' course we know Mortimer Square. Get you there in a tick. Two bob—two_ shillings_—for such a quality fine lady!"

She brought out her small collection of copper and silver. "Is this enough?"

The men squawked in consternation. Frightened, Harmonia added her guinea, "How about this? Will you take me to Number Twelve, Mortimer Square? It's a matter of life or death!"

Their expression underwent an odd transformation at the sight of the gold. "Reckon it's real?" the toothless man wondered to his mate.

"Reckon so. Get in, Miss! We'll take you anywhere in the kingdom for a guinea!"

"I just want to go to Mortimer Square!" she protested, as they shoved her into the tiny box and shut the door. They grabbed the poles on either side, and Harmonia was jostled about as they lifted her off the ground. Suddenly they broke into an alarmingly fast trot, chanting "Make way!" as they jogged through the streets.

There was only a small opening on either side. Harmonia tried to see where they were going. She soon realized that the openings were small and high up in order to keep the filth the men were splashing up from soiling her clothes. All sorts of foul smells assailed her: the smell of human urine and dog droppings; horse manure and rotten fish; unwashed bodies and thick coal smoke. They turned a corner, and Harmonia was almost certain that this was Jermyn Street. At least they were going in the right direction!

"Make way!"

There was a bump, and the chair swayed. Outside, a gentleman cursed furiously. Harmonia stifled a giggle at the man's naughty language. A horse squealed, it seemed by her ear, and Harmonia flinched, hoping they were not to be run down. It was not as rough as she had feared, but the chair smelled very badly of the countless occupants who had been there before her. It was dark, too, and Harmonia was glad she could not see the interior more distinctly.

"Make way!"

-----

It was a quiet Tuesday morning at Number Twelve. Bellini had called early, to assure Jane that Letty had received her message, and was as well as could be expected. Jane heard with some concern that Lord Fanshawe's son had arrived to stay for a week, since Letty had told her how unfriendly her stepson and his wife had proved. Their conversation was quiet, while Caroline and Penelope kept Emily Martingale entertained. They had considered visiting the shops before John returned. The house in Berkeley Square had been resolved upon, and there was endless talk of draperies and porcelain and silver. John wanted everything to be perfect for his new family. The butler appeared in the doorway, looking concerned.

"Miss James to see you, Madam." Rivers eyed Jane anxiously. "She says that Lady Fanshawe is in 'deadly peril.'"

"What! Show her in!"

Harmonia James, her hair down about her ears, and in a wet velvet cloak, ran up the stairs and threw herself through the drawing room door, declaring, "Lord Fanshawe is sick, and I think they are killing Lady Fanshawe!"

Aghast at such terrific pronouncements, the women all exclaimed at once. Bellini hurried to the young girl's side and persuaded her to sit and tell them calmly what had happened.

It was dreadful news, of course, but quite thrilling to be the absolutely riveting center of attention. Harmonia tried to compose her thoughts and the story poured out of her in torrents.

"This morning Mrs. de Vere said I was to stay in my room, because Lord Fanshawe had taken ill in the night. I wanted to see Lady Fanshawe—to see if she was all right, because she had been with Lord Fanshawe when he had his fit, or whatever it was. I was told I wasn't allowed, and that the doctor wouldn't permit Lady Fanshawe to see his lordship for the sake of her health." With intense excitement, she relayed an important detail. "And I was also told that Lady Fanshawe and her maids thought his lordship was dead, but the _doctor_ said it was a fit. Anyway, I tried to see Lady Fanshawe and that horrible Doctor Malahyde was there and he and Mr. de Vere were using her very roughly, and she saw me and screamed for help! She said they wanted to bleed her!"

Jane made a small, dreadful sound. "Doctor Malahyde? He is with Letty!"

"Yes! And that is not the worst! I overheard Mr. and Mrs. de Vere talking among themselves about how they hated that Lady Fanshawe would inherit anything and how angry they were about her child, and how much better it would be if she died before his lordship!"

She was rather satisfied with the horror-struck expressions all around her, until Mrs. Tavington said in a low, terrible voice. "They said that? You're not exaggerating?"

Offended, Harmonia drew her chin up. "On my honor, I'm telling the truth. Mrs. de Vere asked if there were not people who could take care of such _problems,_ and Mr. de Vere said he had already talked to someone! Yes! And then when they were dragging Lady Fanshawe away to bleed her, there was Mrs. de Vere, smirking like anything, pleased as may be! You must send for the Colonel, and he will save Lady Fanshawe!"

"Yes, Jane!" cried Caroline. "You must send a message to Will right away! He was going to be at Horse Guards this morning! Peter could be there in less than half an hour!

Penelope agreed, but added, "And we must send for John, too. He has friends among the magistrates. We must send him a message and have him bring his friends to arrest Mr. de Vere, if he is trying to harm dear Letty!"

Jane's head was perfectly, terribly clear. "Yes. A good plan, as far as it goes. Caroline, you write to Will, and Penelope, you write to John. Send the messages out immediately. You might also want to contact Edward—a lawyer might be very useful. Tell them to go directly to Fanshawe House." She made to leave the room.

"Wait, Jane!" cried Caroline. "Where are you going?"

"I am going to Letty instantly," Jane replied, hardly slowing. "I have no idea how long it will take for them to receive the messages. They may be talking in the street with friends, or they may have gone to a coffee house, or they might be in meetings that cannot be disturbed. I cannot wait. I am going now."

"You shall not go alone!" Bellini exclaimed. "I shall escort you!"

"That is very good of you, sir," Jane said, very touched, but still intent on her mission.. "Are you armed?"

"Of course." He gestured to the narrow dress sword at his side. It was not a perfectly practical weapon.

"Anything else? A pistol?" Jane asked.

"A dagger."

"You need a pistol. I have a pistol upstairs which I shall fetch. Penelope, please ring for the carriage to be brought round."

Harmonia stared at these astounding plans. "What shall I do? Could I come along?"

Jane nearly snapped at her, but relented. "No. I need you to stay here and help my sisters-in-law with their notes, so every detail is correct. It is very important that they receive accurate information, especially if the law is to be summoned. Besides, I think you could do with a cup of tea and some time warming before the fire." She turned back to Bellini. "Wait here, Signore. I shall fetch my pistol, and then go downstairs to the study." She muttered, half to herself. "Guns. We need more guns. I know where William's weapons are."

The other ladies begged her not to go. Emily was shocked at Jane even dreaming of confronting such wickedness herself, and Caroline begged her to think again. Jane could not be persuaded.

"I cannot wait. It did not take Doctor Malahyde long to kill Lady Carteret when she was in his power. If the de Veres imagine that they can harm my sister with impunity, they are much deceived. Please—write the notes. I cannot stay to talk."

She ran out the door and was flying up the steps to her room in an instant. Pullen was sewing there, and looked up in surprise.

"Don't mind me, Pullen." Jane muttered, distracted. "I'm just here for my pistol." She snatched up the box out of her chest of drawers, and took a quick survey of the contents. William had instructed her to always keep her pistol loaded, as possible assailants were unlikely to give her time to use powder, ball, and ramrod. She could not carry the box. She could not walk down the street, pistol in hand. How to conceal it, and still have access to it?

A muff! Her biggest was of fox fur, dyed black for mourning wear. The pistol slid nicely into a hiding place in the silk lining. She opened the malachite box William had given her, snatched up a fistful of gold, and shoved it into a pocket. She raced back down the stairs, collected Bellini, and took him down to the study, where she found William's best pistols in their elaborate case. They were not loaded, and she put Bellini to work on one, while she dealt with the other, glancing over to make certain the tall Italian knew what he was about.

He did, in fact, know the proper way to load a pistol, and by the time the carriage was pulling up by the front door, they were armed and ready.

The four ladies crowded about.

"Oh, Jane! Do reflect! William will be here soon!"

"Sir John can put it right, Mrs. Tavington!"

"Be very careful, my dear! Here is Peter," called Caroline. She rounded on the footman. "Peter, you should be quicker when Mrs. Tavington needs to go out. Stay with her, whatever happens!"

Harmonia whined, "Why cannot I go with you?"

Jane snapped, "Do you know how to use a pistol?"

"What? No!"

"Then stay here!" Too stirred up for civility, Jane blazed to Scoggins, "To Fanshawe House, as fast as you can!" Peter, the footman, hastily opened the door, let down the stairs, and stepped back while Bellini handed Jane up into the carriage. He barely had time to leap up behind and hold on when the carriage lurched away. He wondered what was about to happen. The money he received from Lord Fanshawe was a tidy sum, as were the payments from the other gentlemen. He sighed, knowing it had been too good to last, and hoping no one ever knew he had been talking behind the Tavingtons' backs.

Jane threw herself back against the carriage cushions, raging. In the tense silence Bellini asked, "Do you have a plan, Signora? I do not think the servants will permit either of us to enter."

"I shall offer them sufficient inducement," Jane said fiercely, wishing that Moll were here with her musket. "I have a great deal of money upon me, or they can have a bullet if they prefer."

"Ah." Bellini considered the matter, as the horses clattered past Colchester House. "You do not object if I attempt words before deeds?"

"No. I suppose not. Anything that gets me to Letty."

Scoggins was shouting to the horses. Jane could not find even their current dangerous speed satisfactory, and shifted restlessly in her seat, wishing she were driving herself.

"Listen, Signora," Bellini considered. "If you drive up before the house, they will know you are here and that you must suspect something, for your family arms are plain to see on the door of the carriage. Let us have the coachman stop in King Street, and then we shall walk around the corner to the house and take them by stealth. Yes?"

Reluctantly, Jane nodded. Bellini leaned out the door to tell Scoggins of the change in route. They turned sooner than usual, and within ten minutes they had arrived at their destination. Some passersby turned to look at the unusual haste and bustle, as the Tavington carriage clattered to a hall. The worried and chastened Peter leaped down and got the door open. Jane nearly threw herself at him, and Bellini was quickly at her side, and steadying her. The rain had stopped, and dirty water puddled in the street. Jane stepped carefully, not wanting to get her stockings soaked.

"Let me speak first to them, Signora."

"Very well, but if they try to shut the door in my face I won't be responsible for what I do next."

"I understand. _Piano, piano,_ Signora. Softly—that is the way to begin."

He offered his arm, and she took it, glad that she had a companion on this adventure who seemed resourceful and unafraid. She asked, "Do you often storm your patrons' houses?"

He laughed. "Sometimes, when they do not pay me. It happens. Stand back and do not let them see you at first."

He let go her arm and advanced to the doorway. Jane stood away to his left, pressed against the wall, while Bellini rang the bell. Her hand felt for the pistol inside her muff while her heart lurched, waiting for the moment—

The door opened a little, and a voice Jane recognized as Dunner, the butler, spoke to Bellini.

"His lordship's not receiving today, sir. You'll have to come back another time."

"It matters not. I have come to see Lady Fanshawe. She is expecting me."

A confused pause. "Sorry, sir. Her ladyship is indisposed and can't be disturbed."

"She is ill?" Bellini asked with great concern. "What a misfortune! I beg you, permit me to leave my card, that the lady knows her friends are thinking of her."

Another moment of hesitation. "Well—"

"My dear Dunner! You know that I am the lady's friend! Do not keep me waiting on the doorstep. Let me come in and tell me how I may serve her. I am hers to command. May I fetch an apothecary? A cordial? A physician? But surely, his lordship has thought of these things. May I carry a message for him to his friends?"

"I haven't seen his lordship today," Dunner replied sullenly. "He's not well. Up in his room and his son says he can't see anyone. No more can her ladyship. Here, come in, but keep quiet. I'm not supposed to let anyone past the door, but I know_ you."_

"I thank you, my friend. I wish to know everything. The patronage of this noble house is of great moment to me." Bellini smiled, and pushed the door open wide. Quickly, Jane darted in behind him. The butler gaped at the sight of her, and then opened his mouth.

With speed astonishing in such a big man, Bellini shoved him against the wall and had the tip of a dagger to his throat. "Think carefully before you shout, my friend. As you see, the lady's sister is here and, ah yes, has a pistol pointed at your heart."

Dunner froze, eyes bulging in fright. He opened his mouth again, but not to shout. "What do you want?" he gurgled.

Jane closed in, and hissed. "Where is my sister? I have heard the de Veres have imprisoned her in her room and had that fraud Malahyde bleed her! Is that true?"

"Doctor Malahyde's here, right enough, ma'am—he thinks she's in need of physick—"

"Where is Lord Fanshawe? Is he alive or not?"

In shock, the butler stammered, flinching at Bellini's knife point. "Don't know, ma'am. He looked dead to me last night, but Mr. de Vere says not. They took him off to his room, and none of his own servants have seen him. Why would he say he was alive if he wasn't? He'd have the title and money and all--"

"Take me to my sister, now!" Jane said through her teeth, tired of this silly parley. "I must see that she is all right. You know, if you are not a fool, that something very bad is happening here. If the de Veres are trying to kill her—"

"You will hang as their accomplice," Bellini put in, his teeth bared in a grimace.

"No, he won't hang," Jane snarled. "I'll kill him first. Where are the de Veres right now?

"—P—P—Painted Parlor, ma'am."

"Where is Doctor Malahyde?"

"With Lady Fanshawe."

Jane's lips were white, and she shook her head, trying to ease the tension in her neck. "All right. We're going to my sister now. You will walk ahead and look natural. If you shout for help, I shall shoot you."

The butler flinched again, looking angry. "Nobody here wants any harm to come to her ladyship, but I'll lose my place if Lord Fanshawe knows I let you in."

Bellini spoke low and soothingly. "If his lordship is dead, it cannot matter. If he is not dead, he is unconscious. Lady Fanshawe is mistress here, and she wants to see her sister very much." He smiled in a confiding, threatening way, speaking into the hapless Dunner's ear. "Mrs. Tavington has gold for you, if you do not betray us—"

Jane was wild with the delay, but added in an impatient whisper, "--And if you lose your place I shall write you a sterling character. If Lady Fanshawe is in peril, I imagine she'll be very grateful to her rescuers. Now stop talking and get moving!"

With another shove, Dunner was turned about and led a stately procession down the marble hall to the grand staircase. Jane longed to run, but that would attract attention. She glanced swiftly at Bellini, who was bright-eyed and alert, clearly enjoying the adventure. Jane once again reflected that adventures could be very unpleasant experiences. They reached the upper hall, and passed a footman, who stood up, gaping uncertainly at Jane and Bellini.

Dunner gave him a stern glare, and the servant slunk back, looking curious and rather hopeful. It occurred to Jane that Letty might be popular with the servants, and that the de Veres very likely were not. As they turned to go to the floor above, Dunner paused.

"Alcock is posted in front of his lordship's apartments. He's one of Mr. de Vere's servants. He'll sound the alarm if he sees you, ma'am."

"Get rid of him," Jane snapped.

"How?" the butler asked helplessly.

Bellini snorted, "Tell him he is to fetch refreshment for the doctor, on Mrs. de Vere's orders. No such order has been given yet, has it?"

"No," answered Dunner, pulling himself together. "No. 'Twill do well enough, perhaps." He squared his shoulders and walked upstairs.

Jane hissed a wordless warning at him, gesturing with her pistol. Dunner scowled and walked on.

Carefully, Bellini took Jane by the elbow, and guided her slowly up the stairs, stopping before they would be visible from the upper hall. They heard Dunner's deep voice speaking to another man.

"—told me to stay here!"

"—I shall remain in your place. I'd advise you to have a meal yourself, while you're in the kitchen. Who knows how long you'll need to be here? Have something to eat, and then bring the gentleman a tray."

The other man strode away, and they could hear footsteps on another staircase. Bellini took a quick glance over the top of the stairs, and then pulled Jane along quickly. Dunner was waiting for them.

Jane asked him in a whisper, "My sister's apartments?"

"That they are, ma'am. There is a connecting door to his lordship's. The doctor's had no need to come out. We can't know if he's with the one or t'other."

"What about Lady Fanshawe's maids?" Jane wondered.

"Haven't seen or heard them since last night when his lordship come over queer," the butler told her.

Jane took a breath, "Well, go in and look about. I've never been in my sister's rooms here. I know there is a boudoir and a dressing room and a bedroom. The connecting door is between his lordship's dressing room and the boudoir, is it not?

Dunner nodded.

"Well," Jane decided, "go in. If Malahyde is in the boudoir, we may have to rush in. I hope not."

Dunner swallowed nervously, and then opened the door and walked in. He left the door open, and Jane listened intently for any voices. The silence was complete. Bellini gave her a nod, and the two of them glided into the room. Jane saw the amazing room as a whole, not able to spare any attention for its beauties and its splendid ornaments. Dunner was listening at the dressing room door, and beckoned quickly to them.

"Someone's in there, but I can't make out what's being said."

"Go in!" hissed Jane, giving him a push.

Dunner entered and gave a low, shocked exclamation. Jane peered around the corner.

The dressing room was dark, the windows obscured by heavy draperies. In the dim light, Jane could see two figures lying together on the floor, wriggling like snakes, their voices smothered and muffled.

Bellini strode past her and flung open the drapes. Véronique and Julie Maupin were bound and gagged, their eyes wide and furious, struggling against the laces and trimmings which held them helpless. Véronique recognized them first, and gave them a look of inexpressible relief.

Jane held a finger before her lips, and helped the two men untie the women. "Shh! I am here to rescue my sister! Don't make a sound. If Doctor Malahyde is with her, we must surprise him."

The women nodded, glaring briefly at the embarrassed Dunner. One whispered to him, "Fool! I told you the old man is dead. They will kill Madame for her inheritance, and then give out that the _Vicomte_ died afterwards."

"But that's madness!" Jane objected, in a whisper. "You would give them the lie!"

Julie laughed mirthlessly. "Not if we are put on a ship for Africa or India or Russia and are never heard of again. We hear them talking. They care no more if we hear than if we are animals."

"Shh!" Jane hushed them again, and followed Bellini out of the dressing room. "Is my sister in her room?"

"Yes," said Julie with great compassion, squeezing Jane's arm. "We hear it all. He is there even now, gloating over her."

"He's a dead man!" Jane swore.

Bellini put out a hand to calm her. "We go quickly. The man must be silenced at once. Do _not_ use your pistol. You may threaten, but do not fire, on your life!" His hand dropped to the doorknob. He flung open the door with silent speed.

Behind Bellini's massive back, Jane glimpsed the opulent, sunny room, with its high tester bed draped with brocade. Malahyde was sitting by the bed, humming, lancet in hand. Letty's arm was flung out limply, her blood dripping into a basin. There were other basins on the floor, full of blood, blackening and clotting. A ray of light fell on Letty's pale, unconscious face. Jane groaned aloud as she ran to her sister, and Malahyde looked up at the sound: astonished, indignant. He rose to his feet as if about to lecture them, when Bellini fell on him like a mountain.

* * *

**Next—Memento Mori**

Thanks to all my reviewers. I very much appreciate those who take the time to give me feedback. Your ideas are such a help!

Sedan chairs were one of the hazards of London streets. All sorts of people complained about being run down by the bearers.

Happy Holidays to all!


	67. Memento Mori

**Chapter 67: Memento Mori**

Inspections were tiresome things, but Tavington would not have anyone say he shirked his duty. Then, too, he was glad for any opportunity for exercise on horseback. It was no bad thing to be a Colonel, astride a perfectly proportioned thoroughbred, dressed in the splendor of the Dragoon Guards.

There was a promise of spring on this day in early March. After the rain, hints of green flecked the dead grass, and the trees lifted leafless branches hopefully toward the sun.. More people than usual were strolling in St. James Park. Loiterers admired the dragoons and their horses, and small children gathered to see them at their work, squealing appreciatively when the sabres flashed out for the sword drill. Tavington noticed a particularly pretty little girl, all golden hair and enormous eyes, watching them in delight. Her ragged, meager clothes and pale face suggested that this free entertainment was her only entertainment. Tavington gave the child a smile when he sheathed his blade. Little girls were endearing creatures. All the women at home had taken to John's little Fanny. Perhaps, someday, he and Jane—

A servant in his own livery was running toward them, waving a paper in his hand. It was Matthew, one of their footmen. Instantly concerned that something might be wrong at home, Tavington turned the men over to St. Leger with a brusque gesture, and cantered over to meet the messenger.

"Here—let me have it, man." He snatched at the note and read it, growing more appalled at every word.

_"Dear Will—_

_Miss James just burst into the house with the news that Lord Fanshawe has taken ill and that Lady Fanshawe was being mistreated by his lordship's son. Apparently that horrid Doctor Malahyde has been called in to attend her against her will. Jane has gone to Fanshawe House to see her sister. Oh, Will, she is so angry and she has taken your pistols. Mr. Bellini is with her. She said you were to meet her at Fanshawe House directly. We have sent a note to John to fetch a magistrate friend. Do go—I am so frightened that something terrible might happen—_

_Caro"_

"Bloody hell!" he swore. To the anxious servant, he shouted, "When did this happen?"

"Not more than half an hour ago!" the footman assured him. "The mistress called the carriage and she and the Italian fellow left just as the ladies gave us our messages. I ran near all the way, sir!"

"Go home and tell my sisters you delivered the message." He shouted to his lieutenant-colonel, "I must go at once!"

Spurring his horse, he galloped away through the middle of his astonished dragoons. The park was free of any obstacles, for only the royal family and their guards regiments were allowed to ride there. Tavington thundered past the curious stares of the bystanders, the tails of the horse hair crest adorning his helmet streaming behind him on the wind. There was a bit of fencing toward Horse Guards Road, and the lovely stallion gathered himself up, jumping it effortlessly. Tavington raced his mount up the street, and then through a tangle of alleys he knew, and within a few minutes was crossing Pall Mall, with St. James Square in sight.

There on King Street was his own carriage. Tavington nodded shortly, as people he knew bowed to him. He slowed only a little when he saw Scoggins in the coachman's box, and Peter loitering in the street. They looked up and saw him, and almost immediately, he reined in and jumped from the horse.

He threw the reins to Peter and rushed to the carriage. To his disappointment, it was empty. "Where is Mrs. Tavington?" he demanded.

Scoggins told him the bad news. "Already gone to her ladyship's house with the Italian gentleman. In a right state, she was. The Italian gentleman told us to wait here. Reckon he didn't want the people at the house to know it was her right away."

"Good thinking," Tavington answered shortly. "Peter, walk the horse out a bit. He's had a gallop. Stay here, you two. My brother may be along shortly. If you see him, tell him I am here."

He set off around the corner at a quick pace. There was no one in front of Fanshawe House, so somehow Jane must have gotten inside. The prospect did not cheer him, and he hoped Jane would not shoot someone and need to flee the country tonight. He would have to flee with her, and what with the children it would be quite a ridiculously large party attempting a clandestine escape. He snorted a laugh. Jane was a sensible girl, but she was not entirely sensible about Letty. What was the matter with Fanshawe, that he had allowed things to come to this pass?

He rang the bell, and waited impatiently. To his exasperation, minutes went by, and no one answered. He rang again, with no better result, and rapped hard with his sword hilt. Perhaps the bell rope was broken.

Someone emerged from the servants' entrance below, looking up through the iron fencing around the area. A woman—perhaps one of the cooks. Tavington called to her, "Why the devil is no one answering the door?"

The woman ducked back into the house, leaving Tavington angrier than ever. He smashed the hilt of his sword against the front door once more, and roared, "Open the door this instant!"

People in the street were looking at him. Enraged, Tavington vaulted the area fencing, and ran down the few steps. He pounded on the door there.

The door was opened, very hesitantly, and a manservant peered out, with two older women huddled behind him. They were taken aback at the sight of a soldier come to the servant's entrance, and the man attempted to shut the door.

Not having any of this, Tavington snarled and shoved the door hard, spilling the man onto the floor. He stalked in and slammed it behind him, shouting at the luckless servants, "What the devil is going on here? Why is no one answering the door? Where is Lord Fanshawe? Where is my wife?"

The de Vere's lanky footman came into the entryway, cramming his mouth full of a last bite of pork pie. He stared at Tavington. "Who're you?"

"How dare you speak to me in that way, fellow!" growled Tavington. "I demand to see Lord Fanshawe at once!" He grabbed the man by the collar and gave him a shake.

The other manservant called out, "Here, now! You can't come in and treat him like that! We'll have the law on you!"

"No need!" Tavington's blood was up. "The magistrates are already on their way! Now you—" he grunted, shoving the man he had grabbed in front of him, "take me to Lord Fanshawe, and I will find out what is bloody well going on!"

More faces appeared as they passed the servants' hall. There were whispers, and Tavington knew he had been recognized. There was some shifting and some fidgeting, but no one made to oppose him. He paused and asked, more civilly, "Has anyone seen Lady Fanshawe? My wife is extremely concerned about her. Is she ill?"

"Don't know, sir" a woman answered, bobbing humbly. "Mr. Dunner should be at the door. He's the man to talk to."

A young girl spoke up. "They say she's sick in bed. I wasn't let in to do up her room today." A few servants jostled the girl, whispering furiously in her ear, but she shook her head at them.

Tavington pressed his advantage. "Let her alone! What about her maids? What did they say?"

"Haven't seen them, sir. They didn't come down to eat and nobody sent a tray up to them." She pushed another maid away, and muttered, "Stop it!" To Tavington she said, "Her ladyship were fine yesterday. This morning we heard Lord Fanshawe took sick in the night, and later they said a doctor was come for him and for her ladyship and no one was to go into their rooms."

"Have _any_ of you seen either Lord or Lady Fanshawe since last night?"

An older, better-dressed manservant, pointed at the man Tavington still had by the coat. "I believe he might have, monsieur," he said with a strong French accent. "He is not of this household, but one of the servants of Milord Fanshawe's son. Milord's son would not permit any but his own people to tend to my master. It was a great insult!"

"And you are--?"

"Collinet, monsieur—Jean-Philippe Collinet,_ à votre service._ I am Milord's valet. I have served him more than twenty years, and now I am cast aside by these—"

"Enough! I am not staying down here, waiting for a butler! You, Collinet--you will come with us, and see to your master. I shall speak to Lord Fanshawe and ascertain his condition and that of Lady Fanshawe. I must also speak to my wife."

The servants looked at each other, bewildered. Tavington became impatient. "I _know_ she is here! Where is she?" Getting no answer, he gave the de Vere's servant another push and said, "Come along. I won't have you running off to your master—"

The footman jerked free, and broke away, heading for the stairs. Tavington swore again and ran after him, catching him by the coattails of his livery and yanking him roughly back down the steps. He gave the groaning man a kick, and drew his sword.

"Do not dare run from me again, or by God, I'll run you through. Collinet, lead on, and take us to Lord Fanshawe's chamber!"

-----

"It occurs to me, my love," said James de Vere to his lady, as they sat cozily together in the Painted Parlor, "that we ought to have a look-in on poor Lady Fanshawe. If something were to happen to her, it would be a sad thing if we were not there by her side."

"Oh, my dearest," the lady agreed. "The same thought came to me just now. It is very wrong to leave the sick with only a physician. Family must be there to bear witness. I would have spoken sooner, but I can hardly tear myself from this room. Such a charming place. I shall spend a great deal of time here in future, I believe."

"I hope you do. Imagine my father giving access to that Colonial nobody and that bastard of his. It was an insult to my poor sister's memory, to have her portrait looking down on those so entirely beneath her."

"Very true. It is a mercy that those women have altered nothing. The room will be just as it should be. I adore that inkstand. We shall be so happy here, my dearest."

"Indeed we shall. Come, take my arm, and we shall go to Lady Fanshawe."

They strolled through the room at their leisure, admiring and commenting as they passed. Mrs. de Vere gave her husband a quick, affectionate smile as they walked out into the grandeur of the marble entry hall and made their way to the wide staircase.

-----

Malahyde would have shouted for help, had not Bellini stuffed a wad of linen bandages into his mouth. He was too outraged, too indignant to heed Jane's pistol. Bellini dragged him away into a corner and set about binding him to a chair. Malahyde kicked out in desperation, and Bellini clouted him again.

Jane had eyes for no one but Letty. As soon as Malahyde had dropped Letty's limp arm, Jane had rushed to her sister and bandaged the bloody wounds made by the lancet. Letty's eyes were shut and her breathing quick and shallow. Letty was tied to the bed by her left wrist. Jane loosed the knot, and ran to find water and a clean cloth for a compress. The two maids followed her very slowly, their limbs stiff and cramped from hours in their bonds. Julie snatched up the water jug just as Jane set it down and drank thirstily. Clutching it, she staggered to her sister and held it for her, since Véronique was not yet able to use her hands effectively. Their thirst slaked, the two Frenchwomen slid to the floor, rubbing their wrist and ankles.

After the first, worst pain was over, they struggled over to Letty's bed.

"Madame is not dead?" Julie asked anxiously.

"No," Jane said shortly, sorry for the maids' sufferings, but too busy with her sister to help them. "She is not, but she seems very weak. I think she needs water, too. Is there any left in the jug?"

"A little," moaned Véronique, reaching out feebly to feel Letty's pulse. "Her heart beats quickly. Yes, water, and then broth."

"We shall have to make do with water for now," growled Jane. "I'm not sure I would trust anything from the kitchen of this house." She wiped the stray locks from her sister's face, and whispered, "Letty! Wake up! It is I, Jane! You are safe!"

Letty's eyes fluttered open. "Miss Jane? Where is Mama?"

Jane's heart clenched with anguish. "Letty! We are in London—in your house—don't you remember?"

Letty's eyes focused and then cleared. They widened in fright. "Oh! Run! Doctor Malahyde is coming!"

"No! Look over there, darling Letty. See- Mr. Bellini has tied him up. He cannot hurt you again. If he tries, I shall shoot him. I have my pistol, and no one is going to bleed you any more."

Bellini smiled tenderly as Letty's eyes traveled to him. He bowed. "Milady. I shall defend you to the death. Fear nothing!" He smiled again, glowing with painful joy at the gratitude and hope in Letty's face.

She was pale, however, and very weak. "Thirsty," she murmured.

Jane helped her drink, first a few sips, and then a good swallow. "Drink as much as you can. That scoundrel has almost bled you dry."

"Yes—I feel that he has. I am so light-headed." She swallowed again. She took in the sight of the two Maupin sisters, very bruised and rumpled. "Oh, Véronique! Are you hurt? What did they do to you?"

"Do not concern yourself with us, Madame," Julie commanded firmly. "We were bound to keep us from going for help, but we shall be ourselves very soon. It is you we are concerned with." She lowered her voice, and murmured to Jane. "Véronique and I must go and change our clothing, Madame. It is disgusting. We shall be quick."

"Of course." It had not before occurred to Jane that the poor women might have soiled their clothing, lying bound on the floor all day. They limped away into the dressing room, and Jane could hear their soft, pained whispers as they helped each other. She sighed and turned to Bellini with a grim look. "I suppose we shall have to consider ourselves besieged until the Colonel arrives. Perhaps we should lock the outer door and barricade it."

"I go, Signora."

Jane expected to hear thuds and scrapings, but Bellini was lifting the furniture, rearranging it almost soundlessly. It was a great advantage, she decided, to have a very large, very strong man along when one was going into battle. She applied herself to taking care of Letty, giving her another drink, washing her sister's wounded arms, and brushing out her tangled hair. To her horror, she discovered that Letty was tied to the bed by her ankles as well. Quickly,she fought through the tight knots and cast the bonds aside. Letty's eyes shut again and she seemed to be dozing.

_At least no one can walk through the door to the apartments and discover us, but_--Jane straightened, and gasped. "Lord Fanshawe! Someone might be in his rooms!"

Letty's boudoir connected with Lord Fanshawe's dressing room, she remembered. She snatched up her pistol and glared at the unfortunate Malahyde, mumbling under his gag, struggling against the bandages that held him fast. Julie appeared at the door, looking considerably better.

"My sister comes in a moment. She was tied more tightly, and her hands—"

Jane nodded. "Take care of my sister, and keep watch over that horrible man. I must speak to Mr Bellini." The maid nodded, and Jane hurried away. A heavy cupboard had been pulled in front of the door. Bellini looked up sharply as she appeared in the outer chamber, but she lifted a finger for silence. "I am going to see if Lord Fanshawe is all right," she whispered. "That door connects with his apartments."

"Do not go, Signora," Bellini advised her. "If that is the door to Milord Fanshawe's rooms, I will block it up, too. We do not know who is near."

Jane shook her head. "I cannot believe that Lord Fanshawe would permit his wife to be used so, if he knew of it. Let's at least have a listen, and find out what is next to us."

"Ah! That is reasonable," he agreed. He fetched a glass from a side table, and held it to the door. Next, he pressed his ear to it. Jane watched, curious and impressed. "Nothing," he whispered. "I hear nothing." He cracked the door a little wider, and peered in. "_Nessuno_," he told her. "No one. All is dark."

"Then let us at least listen at Lord Fanshawe's door," Jane urged softly.

Very cautiously, they slipped through the empty dressing room. Jane started, thinking a man was there. It was only an elegant wig on a stand. Fanshawe's magnificent appurtenances crowded all about: silk coats and embroidered waistcoats, hanging neatly, ready for the master's choice. A long looking-glass revealed only the two of them, mere shadows amid the opulence of Fanshawe's taste. Walking-sticks, hats, more wigs, a dressing table with an array of cosmetics and scents. It seemed to Jane that this must be what a theatre backstage must be like: costumes and paints and props, all awaiting the great actor's appearance. Jane longed to ask Bellini if his own dressing rooms at the opera were like this, but did not dare speak. The silence pressed closely about them, and her heart beat wildly, wondering if any moment the door would open and their presence be discovered.

Bellini's long strides had left her behind. He was already listening at the door, frowning. Jane looked at him beseechingly, not daring to ask aloud if her heard anything. He set aside the glass and shook his head at her, shrugging.

_"Nothing?"_ she mouthed at him. _"Nothing at all?"_

He shrugged again, and shook his head.

_"I want to look!"_ she mouthed again.

_"No!"_ he whispered urgently, just in her ear.

Impatiently, she slid past him, and slowly turned the doorknob. Bellini winced, and hissed in exasperation, but the impetuous young woman could not be stopped without making a great deal of noise. The door cracked open—

--Into darkness. The windows were shuttered, and the draperies drawn against the unwelcome sun. In the midst of the chamber loomed a great tester bed. Its draperies, too, were drawn.

Whatever they had expected, it was not this. A sickroom should be a busy place, but this one was shadowed and silent.

"Is he not here?" whispered Jane, bewildered.

Bellini grimaced, and lay his hand on her shoulder, willing her to stay behind. He strode, cat-footed, over the bed and parted the curtain. He looked at what lay within, his head cocked to the side, considering.

Jane could not bear it. She followed him, the rustling of her silken skirts like the rushing of a great wind in all the stillness. She darted under Bellini's outstretched arm, and craned her neck around the edge of the curtain, trying to see.

Lord Fanshawe was not asleep. She knew that at once. Had he been, his face would not have been covered by the sheet that Bellini had just now pulled away. He was not the debonair man about town she had known. Without an elaborate wig, his own short-cropped white hair made him look more like the image of an ancient Roman than an English gentlemen. One blue eye was slightly open, as if he were winking at them. Jane took a little breath.

"Oh!"

The door banged open, letting in a yellow shaft of light. Jane whirled, pistol at the ready.

"Jane!" cried Tavington. He laughed. "Good God, don't shoot me!"

"William!" She ran to him, eyes enormous. "Lord Fanshawe is lying there dead! He must have been dead for hours! Those horrible people were trying to kill Letty! We must get her out of this dreadful place and take her home!"

Collinet, at Tavington's side, brushed by. "Dead? Milord is dead! And alone! Infamous!" He stood at the bedside, head bowed. "I shall never again have such a master!" And with that, he broke into noisy sobs.

Bellini rolled his eyes, and put a huge, comforting hand on the valet's shoulder. "Come, my friend," he said. "It is well you are here. They have hidden him away, and not prepared him as is his due. See—not even a wig. He is thrown aside, like a peasant. When you are able, it would be a charitable act to prepare him for the eyes of his friends as he would like to be seen."

"_Oui, vous avez raison, mon ami,"_ sniffled the valet. "I shall contain my sorrow, and attend to my noble master." He blew his nose, and busied himself, pushing open the bed draperies, and considering how Lord Fanshawe might best be dressed to face Eternity. "I must clothe him soon, or he shall be stiff, and then what a time I shall have!"

"And who is this?" Jane asked of Tavington, eyeing the cringing servant.

"One of the de Vere's lackeys," Tavington said carelessly. "See that, you rascal? If I do not run you through, Mrs. Tavington would be delighted to shoot you. Go help Collinet." He saw Bellini, and bowed. "Your servant, Bellini. I thank you for escorting my wife."

Bellini returned the bow, saying. "It is indeed true. The old lord is dead—since last night, I would think, but it is cold in the room, and difficult to tell. The lady has been bled almost to the point of extinction, but she speaks. With care, I am certain she will be well." He threw Tavington a serious look over Jane's head. "But perhaps it would be best if she were removed from the care of those in this house."

"Let me see her," Tavington said. "Bellini, keep a watch on that fellow, and make sure he doesn't try to break away."

Jane led him swiftly to her sister. "They tied up the maids and threatened to spirit them away to foreign parts. They tied Letty to her own bed and cut her, trying to make it look as if she were being treated for an illness!"

The maids looked up, frightened, but relaxed when they saw who had come in. Tavington nodded to them, and took in the bedroom in a disgusted glance: the basins of blood littering the floor, the smell of drugs and purges and potions. He paused at the sight of a little raised dais on the other side of the room, with a black velvet backdrop. _What the devil is that?_ _A stage for amateur theatricals?_ He hurried to the bed, appalled at how ill and listless Jane's sister appeared.

"My dear Letty! We shall soon have you out of here!" To his relief, the young woman's eyes opened, and she was able to speak.

"Colonel," she murmured. "Lord Fanshawe is dead, isn't he? I knew he was, but they all said I was wrong—"

"Yes, my dear, he's dead. I am sorry."

"Why?" Her eyes shut again.

Tavington whispered to Jane. "What about the child?"

"I don't know," she answered. "Perhaps it will be all right. She needs more water, and strengthening food—"

There was a muffled grunt of protest from the corner. The Tavingtons turned to study Doctor Malahyde, who was shaking his head in dismayed denial.

Jane hissed fiercely, "Look at him, the murderer!" She stalked over to Malahyde, and waved her pistol in his face. "You should be shot, you horrible man!"

Tavington pulled her away. "Yes, yes, my dear—of course he should. Let's get him out of this room so your sister does not have to look at him." He grabbed the back of the chair, and dragged it, occupant and all, into the outer boudoir, setting him down with a thump. "Don't try to get away, or I'll kill you."

The doorknob rattled. Outside were raised voices. "Where is Alcock? Why the devil is the door locked?" There was the sound of a key in the lock. At the noise, Jane rushed out in the room to stand beside her husband.

Tavington took the pistol from her. "Give me that. If there's any shooting to be done, I'll do it." He smirked at her resentful glare, and smirked again, as the door banged against the cupboard in the way.

James de Vere grumbled, "There's something in the way. Here! Malahyde! Open the door!"

His wife, high and fluting, complained, "What is it? Why does it not open?"

"Perhaps those wretched women got loose," de Vere considered. "Here, my dear, go and ring for our servants. I shall go through my father's room."

Jane snarled at the sound, but Tavington threw her a grin. "Stay here," he whispered. "I'll deal with the man."

"Certainly not!" she whispered back. "Give me back my pistol! Bellini has yours in his pockets."

Tavington was astounded. "You gave the man my pistols?"

"You weren't there!"

With a snort, he walked back to Fanshawe's bedchamber, his wife trotting irrepressibly behind him. "Bellini," he said quietly. "Give me one of the pistols. De Vere is coming round to this room."

"Shall we let him in, or keep him out?"

"Oh, let's welcome him, by all means. Keep your eye on his manservant. No—better--take all those servants into the dressing room."

Bellini nodded, handed Tavington one of the pistols, and hefted the other one. He pulled the luckles Alcock along, and told Dunner and Collinet to come with them. Jane tugged at her husband's sleeve, gesturing for him to give her back her little pocket pistol. He shook his head, grinning. He stepped back against the wall and Jane pressed close beside him.

The door opened. De Vere stopped, surprised at the open curtains. Tavington was poised to strike, but wanted him well inside the doorway first. There was the scraping of one hesitant step, and then another. Instantly, Tavington was behind him, pressing the pistol into his back.

"Don't move. Don't shout. I will shoot you."

Quietly furious, de Vere snarled, "Who are you?"

"Don't you remember me, de Vere? I remember you from the ball at Spencer House in '75."

"Tavington!" de Vere spat out the name. "What are you doing here?"

"Rescuing my sister-in-law, it appears. Murdering a lady is so ill-bred."

"I'll have you in the dock for breaking and entering!"

"I doubt it. Did you murder your father, too? You'd certainly hang for that!"

Impatiently, Jane stepped out of the corner and hissed, "You and your horrible accomplice!"

De Vere looked at her coldly, "This must be your Colonial bride. Really, Tavington, your taste—"

Casually, Tavington slammed the barrel of the dueling pistol against the side of the man's head. A thud, and De Vere staggered, groaning, clutching at his bleeding ear.

"I really, really think you would be wise to be silent, de Vere. You have concealed your father's death, and have plotted to put Lady Fanshawe out of the way. For a paltry fifty thousand pounds! Really, de Vere, your _greed_—"

There were footsteps and voices, and Mrs. de Vere appeared on the threshold. Her mouth opened at the sight of her husband with one pistol aimed at his back and another at his head.

"Mr. de Vere!" she screamed. "Quick, quick, you men! Save Mr. de Vere!"

"Back!" roared Tavington. "Get back, or I'll shoot! The magistrates are on the way! They know all about your plot to kill Lady Fanshawe! You'll be lucky to escape hanging as accomplices to Lord Fanshawe's murder!"

There was a pause, and a shuffling, and two of the men instantly turned and ran. _Good, _thought Tavington, _only three men and a harpy._ _That rather evens the odds._

The sound of a scuffle came from the dressing room. A heavy blow and then a silence. Bellini emerged. "The fool tried to fight. Collinet will see that he does not trouble us." He bowed to Mrs. de Vere. "Perhaps, Madame, you might do well to retire to your chamber. None of us wishes to harm a lady."

"I don't know about that," growled Jane, feeling mutinous. "_I_ wouldn't mind harming her. She had no mercy on Letty!"

A crash below, and shouts. There was a bellow demanding that the door be opened in the name of the Crown. A crash and booted feet were on the stairs, running. Tavington smiled. "And there is John—just in time. Yes, Mrs. de Vere, perhaps you _should_ withdraw."

The woman hesitated, but stayed, glaring poisonously at all her enemies. "You'll regret this!" she shrilled. "You won't get away with this outrage!"

"What is all this?" boomed a deep voice. A strange gentleman, broad-shouldered and well-dressed, had come to the door, and was watching the scene in stern wonder. A handful his men stood behind him. Sir John Tavington pushed through them and looked with quizzical amusement at his brother.

"You can lower the pistols now, Will," John told his brother very calmly. "We've come to the rescue. Is Lord Fanshawe receiving?"

Tavington snorted, "Only heavenly messengers, at this point. The man's been dead since last night. The de Veres were concealing it, for mercenary reasons of their own."

John had not only brought the magistrate, he had brought William Pitt, with whom he had been chatting when Penelope's note had arrived. Pitt had been concerned about harm to such a beautiful young woman as Lady Fanshawe, and such an intelligent and charming woman as Mrs. Tavington. He had offered his services at once, and John thought it was a good idea to have another witness. They had raced to Fanshawe House as quickly as possible, and had been met by a civil war amongst the servants, who were divided into Fanshawe supporters and, as John put it, Vere-ites. Once they found the principals in the struggle, they discovered that sorting out the wrongs of the case was going to make for a long afternoon.

Tavington sent Jane to care for Letty, and gradually the sequence of events was made clear. The body of Lord Fanshawe was examined, and it was agreed that he had been dead for at least twelve hours, probably of natural causes. Mrs. de Vere was escorted to her chamber and told to stay there. Questions were asked of the de Vere's servants, and of de Vere himself, who resolutely maintained that his father had been alive the last time he saw him. If he was dead now, it must be the fault of Mrs. Tavington and her Italian assassin. This statement did him no good with anyone present. The magistrate and Sir John were brought to Lady Fanshawe's room and they questioned her very gently, appalled at the blood in the room, and horrified at the maids' testimony.

Malahyde was taken aside for interrogation, but dealing with him was most unsatisfactory. He was utterly convinced that his care was vital to Lady Fanshawe's health. He was misunderstood. He must have complete freedom to test his theories. Lady Fanshawe had been so much calmer—more serene—more submissive after a series of prolonged bleedings. Ignorant people always feared what they could not understand. If he was removed from the case, he could not be responsible for the outcome.

Tired of his gabble, the magistrate ordered him taken away. About James de Vere, he was more uneasy. The man was the new Lord Fanshawe, after all. It would be difficult to make a case for attempted murder. It would appear that there had been a misguided attempt at medical treatment. The servants' testimony might be twisted and dismissed. The magistrate could not refuse his lordship's demand that the family lawyer be summoned. Finally, at the Tavingtons brothers' vehement insistence, the new peer was arrested, and led downstairs by very respectful constables.

"And what about Lady Fanshawe?" asked Sir John of Jane. "She cannot wish to stay here—it is too appalling. Can she be moved?"

"I am not sure," Jane answered. She went back into the bedroom, and found Letty awake, and her maids preparing to change her into clean clothing. "Letty," she began hesitantly, "We were wondering—I am so reluctant to let you remain in this house—"

"Remain!" Letty was horrified. Weakly, she protested. "Oh, please don't make me stay in this house! I'm all right," she claimed, trying to sit up in bed, and falling back. "No, really I am. I can't bear to stay. Please, take me with you. It will only be for a little while, for—" she smiled slowly, remembering, "—for I have my own house! I have a house to go to—and I have my own carriage—"

Jane thought these happy ideas a very good thing for Letty, but could not agree to everything. "Not while you are so weak, dearest. I shall take you home with me to Mortimer Square until you are strong again. We shall pack up all your things and leave within the hour!" She saw the anxious faces of the Maupin sisters, and added, "And of course your servants must come as well."

The mood in the room brightened somewhat, and then Letty asked, "But what of Harmonia? Is she all right? She must be in her room, wondering what is happening."

"Oh, no! Harmonia escaped from her room and came all the way to Mortimer Square to tell me what was happening. That is why I am here."

"Harmonia? Harmonia told you? Well," Letty lay back on the pillows, thinking. "Well, then I owe her a debt of gratitude. Mrs. de Vere will never let her back in the house, I'm sure, so I suppose…" she thought a little longer, and gave a weak laugh. "Then I must take her in. Lord Fanshawe intended for her to be my companion, and that she must be. Julie, ring for Annie. She should pack up everything in Miss James' room. Oh, and I left some things in the Painted Parlor—I shall never go there again…"

Jane saw Letty looking sad again, and comforted her. "I shall go down myself and find all of your things, and Harmonia's too. Where might they be?"

There was a little talk while all four women considered what would need to be taken. Letty did not want to leave anything she owned at Fanshawe House, and became upset at the very idea. Jane left Julie and Veronique to their work and went to find her husband.

The gentlemen stood together, talking the matter over in low voices. It was confusing to hear the magistrate speaking of James de Vere as "his lordship." They saw her coming, and waited politely to hear her out.

"My sister is very unwell, but she cannot bear to remain in a place where she has been in such danger. I promised her that I would take her home with me, along with her servants. I have set the maids to pack."

"Are you sure, Mrs. Tavington?" the magistrate asked. "She seems very weak. Perhaps the carriage ride would be too much for her."

"No, I can well understand her," Pitt declared. "This place must seem like a den of the Inquisition to her. Don't forget, Montague," he said to the magistrate, "to note down those four basin full of blood in the lady's chamber! Absolute madness!"

"Very well, Jane," Tavington agreed. "I am perfectly glad to take her, if you think it safe. It would certainly be awkward to share a roof with de Vere's wife! I shall have our carriage brought to the front of the house. Letty can travel with you, well-wrapped up. Is she able to dress?"

"Not entirely. We shall just have to make do. If it does not distress either of you, she could be settled in Lady Cecily's old apartments."

The two brothers exchanged a quick, inscrutable glance. Tavington grimaced, a little uncomfortable at the idea of another woman in his mother's rooms, but John shrugged. "Why not? Plenty of room for her and her maids."

"It will not be forever," Jane added, uncomfortably aware that William did not yet know that Miss James would be joining them. "For she has her own house, remember, settled on her by Lord Fanshawe."

"By Jove, yes!" exclaimed John. "You said he had given her a little jewel box of a place on Half Moon Street! Ha! I'll wager Fanshawe had no idea how soon it would come her way!"

"—And she has her own carriage, too," Jane reminded them. "Please have someone bring that round, too, for all the luggage."

The gentlemen were all good enough to undertake small tasks to expedite the business. Dunner, the butler, did his part, now that the move was a settled thing, and then timidly approached Jane. "Excuse me, Madam. If I may have a word—"

"What is it, Dunner?"

"If her ladyship is to have a new establishment, then she will need someone to assist her. The house on Half Moon Street is closed and locked. Perhaps if someone were to start preparing it for habitation—"

"Are you applying to be Lady Fanshawe's butler?" Jane asked bluntly.

"It would be a great honor—"

"I imagine it would. Let me ask her." Jane went into her sister's bedroom and told her of the conversation. "Dunner has asked to be taken on as butler in your new house. Do you trust him? I had to threaten him with a pistol to be let into the house, and he was very unhelpful the day Lord Fanshawe threw me out."

"Oh! Yes, I trust him. He was only being loyal, after all. He has always been very nice to me. He is very efficient. Yes, tell him that he can remain with me. He will have to come with us to Mortimer Square in the meantime, until the lawyer gets me the key to the house. Maybe Annie would like to work for me, too," she considered. "She has such a nice, quiet way about her when she comes to do up my room—"

"Later, Letty. First we must get you safely home."

In the end, all the housemaids were put to work, and the trunks and bags and boxes were packed and organized and ready to be loaded into Letty's barouche. Jane scoured the Painted Parlor for anything that seemed to belong to her sister or to Harmonia James. Letty's coachman and her new butler were to travel in the barouche. Jane, Letty, and the maids would go in the Tavington's closed carriage, where Letty would be warmer. Tavington would accompany them on horseback, and John, Pitt, and their magistrate friend would take charge of the prisoners.

Tavington glanced back into Lord Fanshawe's room. The old peer lay on the bed, faultlessly attired in a magnificent suit of blue silk damask, his orders and honours hung about his neck and pinned to his breast. His finest wig covered his head in perfect style The room was silent, utterly deserted but for the faithful Collinet, who was sitting by the window, his work accomplished, his head in his hands._How strange. It seems that this man was indeed a hero to his valet._ _At least the great Lord Fanshawe is mourned by someone._ He left the room, and shut the door.

It was a great procession that marked the departure of Laeticia de Vere, the dowager Viscountess Fanshawe, from the little palace where she had briefly reigned. Servants laden with her belongings trailed down the grand staircase, a parade of comforts and luxuries. Harmonia was not forgotten, and all her worldly goods were removed from the pretty primrose room. Finally, Letty and her servants were to depart. Tavington thought he would carry her, but he moved forward too late. Orazio Bellini swept the lady up in his strong arms, and proudly bore her down the stairs, like a worshipper with the image of a saint.

The spectacle was observed by the rest of the servants in respectful silence, and by the collection of gapers in the street with heartless curiosity. One who watched and who was not favorably impressed was Mrs. de Vere, now the new Lady Fanshawe, who had come out her room, and stood at the head of the stairs looking down in disdain.

"Good riddance to you!" she called out. "No doubt Lord Fanshawe died because of your arts and enticements! Be off with you and take your plunder with you!"

Letty, remembering how Lord Fanshawe had died, began to sob into Bellini's throat. Jane whirled on her sister's tormentor, and ran up the stairs in a swirl and crackle of black taffeta. Before the woman could run for the safety of her room, Jane had given her a hard shove into the wall.

_"Plunder!_ How dare you! I'll show you plunder, you evil hag!" She grasped the woman hard by her upper arm and snarled, "Go hide in a hole somewhere, you murderess! England cannot hold both you and me. If I see you again, I'll kill you, and I'll kill your husband, and I'll burn your house down!"

Mrs. de Vere's mouth was working, and she stared at Jane in frozen disbelief.

Jane shouted in her face! "Don't speak! Don't dare to speak! You—you—Lady Macbeth in a powdered wig!" With that, Jane snatched the woman's wig from her head and threw it over the balustrade. Mrs. de Vere shrieked and cowered away, hands pressed in shock and humiliation to her scant, greying locks. She fled to her room. The door banged and the lock clicked.

"And stay there!" Jane called derisively. She turned and marched down the stairs, heart swelling in satisfaction. William was waiting for her, half way up the stairs, looking astonished and amused. He offered his arm, and she took it complacently, as they followed in Lady Fanshawe's magnificent train.

"Perhaps you'd like to keep the wig," he suggested mildly. "Like a Mohawk taking a scalp. You could have it mounted above the library mantel as a trophy of arms."

"Mrs. de Vere will _wish_ me satisfied with taking only her scalp if she ever crosses my path again!"

------

**Note:** Memento Mori: "Remember that you are mortal," or "Remember that you must die."

Thanks to all my reviewers. I am trying to keep up the momentum to finish this story, and your support is a great help!

**Next: An Earnest of Their Intentions**


	68. An Earnest of Their Intentions

**Chapter 68: An Earnest of Their Intentions **

While Number Twelve, Mortimer Place was not a palace, it was a very large house. A fortunate happenstance, since at the moment it was home to a great many people. Four grown siblings always take up considerable space; but when one of the siblings has a wife and children, and the other an affianced bride and child, and the sibling's wife has a sister and her companion and her household—well, that makes for a rather lively dinner table.

Letty was only just now coming down to meals. She had slept nearly two days, only waking when there was yet another cup of broth or bowl of milquetoast or dish of sweetened tea with bread and butter. Jane had never spent much time in Lady Cecily's apartments, and so the rooms did not really disturb her much. They were beautifully furnished, and with fresh hangings and bedclothes, recalled no more of her departed mother-in-law than any other large suite of rooms in Mayfair might. She had her little spinet moved into the bedroom, for music soothed Letty and gave her something pleasant to think about. Letty would hum along, or whisper her songs, still not able to sing full-voiced after her ordeal.

The little curtained alcove in the boudoir, which Lady Cecily had used to lounge in during the day, provided the Maupin sisters with sleeping quarters. They were strong young women, and were soon themselves, and eager to help Jane tend to Letty. Jane tried to remember everything she had learned from Biddy about the proper care of wounds. Letty's cuts were carefully washed with wine and bound in clean linen. Weakened as she was by loss of blood, they could not risk any of the wounds becoming infected. Despite the Tavington sisters' pleas, Jane could not be persuaded to call in Sir John Elliott or any other of the fraternity of prominent London physicians. It would frighten Letty too much, and she herself did not see any value in their opinion. Instead, she compromised by permitting the attendance of a well-known fashionable midwife, who examined Letty and pronounced that she could not see that child had taken any permanent harm. There had been no sign of a miscarriage, and thus the plump and comforting woman recommended rest and good food and perhaps a glass of claret in the evening.

Tavington had been vexed, when Jane had taken him aside and broke the news to him that Letty's return involved the addition to their household of Harmonia James. He thought the girl irritating—mostly because of the stories he had heard from his wife and sisters—and he was not pleased to have to give up his own room entirely to their unexpected guest. Jane thought it would be mean-spirited and unkind to relegate Miss James to a chamber in the servant's quarters at the top of the house. He did not object to sharing a room with Jane—in effect, he was already doing so. It rankled, though, that he no longer had a room that was _his,_ and that he had had to tell Doggery to move out his clothes and toilet articles. They had not finished some of the renovations at the end of their hall, and Tavington decided that he must have a dressing room, at the very least—even if it were no bigger than a water closet.

While everyone was concerned for Lady Fanshawe, each resident still had his or her own concerns. Tavington had been working for months on his book of memoirs, and it was complete enough that he had shown it to their publisher friend Tregallon. "Tregallon wants the book ready in ten days," Tavington told Jane, looking very young and happy. "Do you think it possible?"

"I can write very, very fast," she assured him. "I can have the fair copy done in three days, but there are still a few passages to correct. I have marked them, and you must have a look at them directly."

She and William had worked hard on the Memoirs. It was not meant to be a heavy tome, but a thin, readable volume of anecdotes and reminiscences and tales of high adventure. The story of brave Corporal O'Lavery was there; the story of Moll fighting the rebels on the retreat from Camden was there. At the same time, Tavington had included the story of Tarleton's impersonation of William Washington and Parkhurst's exploits with their Cherokee scouts. Of course, Tavington had much to say about himself, writing at length about the charge at the Battle of Camden, his campaigns in the swamps—which were vividly described--and the horror of his wounds at the Cowpens.

It was a book that even ladies might read with interest, for he had included a very much edited and romanticized version of his first meeting with Jane and their courtship and elopement. Jane blushed as she read the draft of his description recounting her daring journey to the backcountry to nurse him. He had much to say about her hardships and dangers—and about with what good humor she endured them. Her dreadful attempt at squirrel stew, once one was in no danger of ever having to eat it again, somehow became amusing. He was forced to mention Letty, but by being no more specific than referring to her as "my wife's sister," he hoped to avoid gossip.

Tavington was extremely careful in his assessments of his superiors. Sir Henry Clinton and Cornwallis were treated distantly, but with respect.

"You see," Tavington told Jane, as they worked together in the library. "I don't really care much about them at all. Sir Henry's career is utterly destroyed already. He was good to me in the past, and I do not wish to seem ungrateful. Cornwallis—well--Cornwallis has managed, despite losing an army, to keep a great deal of influence with the King. I'm not sure he deserves it, but since I intend to stay in the army, I cannot risk making an enemy of him. Of course he'll spend the rest of his life explaining himself, but that is his misfortune, not mine. At this point, with the peace not yet settled, I simply want to talk about our loyal people and what they are facing if we desert them."

So there were more tales of camp life: how the provincial regiments were not so much composed of men, as of dispossessed families.

Before Jane began copying the final version, she and Tavington had a discussion about what to call the enemy.

"If there is to be peace, you cannot call them the 'enemy.' If they are to be given independence, you cannot really call them 'rebels.'"

"What am I to call them, then?" Tavington asked impatiently. "Not all of them were Carolinians—and some were North Carolinians, and some were South Carolinians, and I simply don't know what to call that lot from Delaware—"

"You must call them Americans, Will." Jane sat still, thinking it over, silenced by a sharp pang of homesickness. Quite vividly, she saw in her mind's eye the massive Exchange, the narrow streets of Charlestown, St. Michael's Church, The Rutledge House on Queen Street—now lost to her forever. She felt the air and space of her beloved room upstairs, and heard Biddy's footsteps treading the floors of long-leaf pine. For a moment, in the chill and rain of a London March, she could smell honeysuckle and mimosa carried on a hot breeze; the smell of cornbread and sugar-cured ham and molasses; voices talking and shouting and murmuring and singing in the slow, beloved Carolina drawl. Her pen lay dripping on the blotter, forgotten. She had not seen a rice field or a live oak bearded with moss in over half a year—and very likely she would never see them again. Tears burned her eyes. Only a few seconds had ticked away. She repeated, more softly. "Yes, they are all Americans, just as I am."

"Nonsense!" Tavington scoffed. "You're an Englishwoman by marriage now!" He looked at her more keenly. "Are you all right, Jane?"

She wiped her eyes, and laughed at herself. "Yes, quite all right. But you must call them Americans. And I am one by birth, and always will be. I was just wondering what Cousin Mary was doing now—at this very moment. I hope I hear from her soon. I have been counting the weeks."

"You cannot reasonably expect a letter to reach us until April, Jane. The very end of this month at the earliest. No doubt you are a little downhearted at the cold and dark."

"Yes, that is it, I suppose. We always had such lovely flowers in the garden at Cedar Hill. Camellias and bougainvillea, and of course delicious honeysuckle. I missed them just now."

"I shall order something from a nurseryman to cheer you. American, indeed! Your sister now sounds like she has lived in Mayfair all her days."

"Letty has less to feel nostalgia for than I, naturally. Does my accent trouble you?"

"No—it's very charming. It's hardly noticeable now, anyway. It's been fading for some time."

"Really!" Jane was conflicted: she had sometimes been ashamed of the sound of her own provincial voice; but losing her distinctive speech would be like losing part of herself. "I suppose it is inevitable. I've noticed that the way Ash speaks is changing, too."

Tavington laughed. "Yes! He's starting to make sense!"

-----

Despite the number of inhabitants—a growing number, since some of the servants from Fanshawe House had appeared on their doorstep, soliciting for work with "that sweet Lady Fanshawe"—their home was a comparative island of peace and security. Outside, the tempest of gossip swept through London.

"Is it true, then, that the new Lord Fanshawe and his lady are fled?" Penelope asked, when Sir John came home that afternoon. Rumors had reached them, but John was their most reliable source.

"Yes," he answered briefly, smiling as he sat down on the sofa beside Emily. "And that madman Malahyde with them. I suppose it was to be expected. Gold is a great lubricant when one is under arrest. The two of them escaped from custody, and de Vere's wife had already made arrangements. I suppose they did not want Malahyde left behind, blabbing the story to whole of London! A coach took them to Dover, from whence they departed on what their family and friends are describing as 'an extended tour of the Continent.' I'm not sure they would actually have been convicted of anything serious, but they knew public opinion was heavily against them, and decided to lie low. I have no idea how long they'll endure of company of Malahyde, but the lot of them are out of England for the time being."

"For the rest of their lives, I hope!" Jane remarked acidly.

John nodded agreeably. "It would probably be for the best. Fanshawe has that great fortune now, as well as his own money. He and his lady could take one of those palaces in Venice, say, and live royally! Luckily, the family lawyer is a sensible man, and Protheroe says he is giving no trouble about the Dowager Lady Fanshawe's jointure. He'll bring over the key to that house she inherited, and it will all be hers without a struggle."

"I am sorry for their children," Emily put in. "Poor little innocents! To lose their grandfather and their parents! Who will care for them?"

"The eldest is at Eton and the next oldest boy is being sent to join him there. The two younger lads will stay with a relation of their mother's."

"Not at Salton Park?" Caroline wondered.

"Well, not now, not until the matter of temporary guardianship is resolved. It might be that the lawyer will appoint a tutor to care for the boys there—or the estate may be let. It is all very unsettled right now, but it's not as if they are being put out in the street."

Harmonia, sitting at the instrument, turned red, and her shoulders slumped. Those horrid little boys—her nephews!--were going to be all right. They had houses and money and lawyers and parents—even if the parents were hundreds of miles away. At the moment, Harmonia had nothing but the possessions stowed away in an upstairs bedroom and a tenuous hold on the good will of Lady Fanshawe. The will had been read—Colonel Tavington and Mr. Protheroe had attended on Lady Fanshawe's behalf. It had been a complex, detailed document. Lord Fanshawe had been generous to all of his old friends and servants. The valet had been left a goodly pension to provide for his old age. Nor had Harmonia been forgotten. She had been acknowledged as Lord Fanshawe's natural daughter, and bequeathed five thousand pounds. Not a great sum, but not a pittance, either. It was the way it had been left that grieved her.

Harmonia was to have five thousand pounds on the day of her marriage to any man approved by Lord Fanshawe or by her legal guardian. To her horror, she discovered that her new guardian was her half-brother, the new Lord Fanshawe, now in exile. Given the level of rancour between the parties, it was impossible that he would approve any suitor who would present himself. If she had not married by her twenty-first birthday, the money would revert to her control at that time, but that seemed to Harmonia an event as distant as the Second Coming. Four years! She had only a little over fifteen pounds-- money that Mr. Protheroe had retrieved for her--until then. If she married without her guardian's consent before her twenty-first birthday, she had better make certain her bridegroom was disgustingly rich, for the five thousand pounds would be lost to her, and go into the coffers of Lord Fanshawe instead.

The funeral would be held at the church in St. James Square in two days time. Obviously, there was no possibility that Lady Fanshawe could attend, even if it had been proper. Colonel Tavington and Sir John would go, and bring back what scraps of gossip men were capable of gleaning. Harmonia's mourning clothes had just arrived today, and the girl put them on with a sense of despair. Mrs. Tavington had gone ahead and ordered them from a capable seamstress she knew. It was assumed that Lady Fanshawe would pay for them. Harmonia had never felt her dependent and penniless condition more than at that moment. She let Mrs. Tavington choose what she would. Mourning clothes were hideous, anyway. At least she would have clothes would that allow her to be seen by guests and leave the house with propriety. Two gowns of black bombazine, a black broadcloth visiting habit, a black woolen cloak, a black hat, two pairs black kidskin gloves, plain black shoes and stockings: such would be her wardrobe for at least the next six months, and very likely longer. Gone were the dreams of her ball—her very own ball, where she would be in white, dancing with the noblest in the land! Tears of self-pity welled in her eyes, and she reached for her pocket-handkerchief again. She must make herself agreeable to those willing to take her in. It was that, or four years of penury, possibly working as a governess or companion or a teacher in a school—if she could get a position. No—she would do nothing that would cause her to lose her prospect of a home with Lady Fanshawe!

The room upstairs she had been given was nothing compared to her lovely primrose chamber at Fanshawe House. It was smaller, and the windows looked down at the back of the house over the stables and carriage house, and then further on over a maze of dirty alleys and byways. The fireplace was pretty, though, in an old fashioned way, all lined with blue and white Delft tiles. The bed was comfortable. It was not_her_ room, though, and she felt it keenly. The only consolation was that it was Colonel Tavington's room, and the comfortable bed had the added spice of having been slept in by that handsome and heroic man. He had saved Lady Fanshawe, just as she had knew he would. He did not seem to think much of Harmonia, though, which made her a little sad.

-----

John Tavington was not as easily offended as his brother. Perhaps that is why he was not instantly indignant when, as he left the church following Lord Fanshawe's funeral, a stranger slammed into him, shoulder against shoulder, nearly knocking him down the steps.

"John!" Tavington called, catching his brother by his arm. "Are you all right?"

"Nothing, dear fellow, nothing! Fellow gave me a good knock---over there—no, I don't see him. Must have been in a hurry. Stay—what is this?" A piece of parchment was thrust carelessly into a pocket of his greatcoat. John pulled it out, and found it was a folded note. "Ha! A petition or something of the sort, I suppose—but—"

He read it and raised his brows. Tavington looked at him in puzzlement. John frowned and pulled his brother along, down the stairs and out of the way of the crowd.

"Here. You may as well read it for yourself."

_Sir John—_

_Our patience has its limits. Having failed in an application to your brother, we turn to you, hoping that you will prove more prudent. We are prepared to be generous if you deliver the papers to us forthwith. Send your answer to the landlord of the Cheshire Cheese no later than midnight tonight, or we shall be forced to offer you an earnest of our intentions._

_Harmodius _

"Bloody hell!" Tavington exclaimed, "It's that Harmodius fellow again. The impudent rascal, to threaten us!"

"And that's not all, old fellow," John told him. "Sir Edward Claypoole as good as dressed me down today on my way to the Commons. Said it would be a pity if we disappointed our Sovereign. Wondered where our loyalties lay! I tell you, Will, we have got to find these papers, or we'll never have a moment's peace!"

"I wonder if we should simply lay our cards on the table, and tell both parties that we don't know what they're talking about, and ask them to give us at least a hint!"'

John winced. "And that is why you are such a hopeless card-player, Will. They wouldn't believe us for a minute—not a minute. They'd think we were angling for a higher price. No. Mamma had a box and some papers, and I believe we shall find them yet. Once in our hands, we can decide what we ought to do with them."

Tavington lowered his voice. "The King seems an honest man. If it's his son plaguing him, I think we should turn whatever it is over to him at once."

"Oh, yes! No question. Blackmailing the King of England—hardly to be thought of!"

They drove immediately to the coffee house known as "The Cheshire Cheese," and demanded to see the landlord. He claimed he did not know the source of these letters. He often received letters for gentlemen, he told them. A fellow came by, now and then, asking for anything addressed to "Harmodius." The landlord's description conveyed nothing to either of the Tavingtons—a scrawny little fellow, dressed as a laborer. Someone's flunkey, obviously. Nor did he come by regularly, which would have allowed them to lie in wait. There seemed little to be accomplished by remaining.

They went home instead, to describe the funeral to the ladies in the drawing room. Letty was able to dress and join them now, though she still looked unnaturally pale. The ladies had their own news. Bellini had come to visit and pay his compliments. He was the only visitor outside the family Letty wished to see—and she wished to see _him_ very much. Letty expressed her gratitude for his help once more, and said that she was looking forward to resuming her music lessons. A little later, Edward Protheroe had made a brief call, and presented Lady Fanshawe with the key to the house of Half Moon Street. Letty was wild to go and see it, and Jane was concerned that she was not yet well enough. The Tavington sisters took Jane's part, Emily silently sympathized with Lady Fanshawe, being herself a woman who had had and lost a home, and longed to have one once more. Harmonia, who was just as anxious to see the Half Moon Street house as Letty, was chary of putting herself forward.

"You know you can stay with us as long as you like, dearest," Jane assured Letty feelingly. "Stay forever—make this your home. There is plenty of room. You could let the house on Half Moon Street and enjoy the income from it, instead of spending money on a household—"

Letty smiled and shook her head. Tavington felt immediately relief. He was fond of Letty, but he thought that upholding the position of Lady Fanshawe as well as that of his own wife and sisters and children was likely to be an expensive prospect.

The dowager Lady Fanshawe said, "You are so good, sister. I love being here and I love being with you, but I must have my own home, if only for my child. I have such plans. We can visit back and forth every day if you like, but I long to have a house I can decorate and furnish and play with. I have no idea if the house is in good condition, or not."

"It is true," agreed Emily, "that visiting a new house and planning how to make it one's own is so delightful. I have not enjoyed myself so much in years as when Sir John and I go to the house on Berkeley Square. I know that Lady Fanshawe will find putting her own house in order equally enjoyable."

Tavington gave Jane a private, amused look, and she returned it with a sour scowl. He understood that she wanted her sister close to her, but he would have to make her see that a five minutes' walk to Half Moon Street was quite close enough. Letty was a viscountess, and a wealthy woman. She was a widow, and soon to be a mother, and naturally she wanted a life of her own.

And that is what he told his wife in bed, a few hours later. Jane scowled again, and rolled away from him. He was having none of this and spooned himself behind, wrapping her in his arms. "And besides," he added. "I don't really think you want years of Harmonia James, though the girl seems well-behaved enough to me. A bit of a sycophant, but I suppose that's understandable. Probably afraid she'll be put out of the house, with nowhere to go."

"I suppose," Jane replied dully. "I just thought that when Lord Fanshawe died, Letty could come home."

"My dear—Letty has changed. She still loves you, but she is her own woman now."

"You don't understand. You don't know how terrible it was for her. She's told me what that old lecher made her do—it's just sickening. She needs time to heal from the de Veres' abuse and recover from Lord Fanshawe's depravities."

"I see," said Tavington, hoping she would tell him about the depravities in detail. When she did not immediately continue, his curiosity could not be brought to heel, and he asked, "What exactly did he do?"

"I cannot speak of it. Letty told me in confidence," Jane said shortly.

"Jane—" he whispered, nuzzling her. "Perhaps you could _show_ me?"

-----

The following day brought its own troubles. Just a little after noon, a party of gentlemen came to call. Jane's first impulse was to say they were not at home.

"But Madam!" Rivers was red with embarrassment. "It is the Prince of Wales! We cannot just—turn him away!"

Jane could have cried with exasperation. It would be rude and impolitic to refuse entry to the heir to the throne and his companions. They were here to see Letty, of course, and Jane now decided the Prince of Wales was the rudest man on earth. She hissed angrily at Caroline, "Her husband is not dead a week, and she is expecting a child in August! What kind of man would imagine himself welcome in such circumstances?"

"A man who believes himself above the rules restricting mere mortals," Caroline whispered back, equally indignant.

The Prince of Wales strolled in, followed by a few friends: Sir Edward Claypoole, Colonel Lake, and William's second-in-command, Lord Alan St. Leger. He, at least, had the grace to look a little ashamed.

"Your Royal Highness; gentlemen," Jane said in greeting. "You do us honor."

There were smiles all around which faded a little when Jane told them that Lady Fanshawe was unable to join them. She was ill: too ill to come downstairs and receive visitors. It was a slight exaggeration: aside from a special friend like Bellini, Letty wished to be only with family at the moment..

"Too ill," Jane added firmly, seeing the hopeful look in the Prince's eye, "to receive guests in her apartments. It would agitate her dangerously. Will it please you to take some refreshment, sir?"

The Prince and his friends stayed over an hour, irritating Jane even more. They laughed and talked and drank a great deal of tea. Jane might have to endure this kind of behavior from the Prince of Wales, but she gave Alan St. Leger a stern look, as the time passed and the Prince showed no intention of leaving.

Lord Alan sat by her, and whispered, under the cover of Penelope's harp performance. "_He,"_ he said with a nod to the Prince, "would have it so. He wanted to see Lady Fanshawe. Perhaps if she could come down briefly, he would be satisfied."

"She will_ not_ come down," Jane declared grimly. "She is ill, and it would make her even more ill, and her health shall not be put at risk for anyone's whim, be he Prince or private gentleman!"

"I know," St. Leger murmured, looking frantically about to see if she had been overheard. "I understand. I am here at the Prince's behest, but I can well comprehend that she is still unwell after the shock of Lord Fanshawe's death. I have always admired the lady. I pray you, convey my compliments. I wish her only to know how many good friends she has—friends who will not forget her during the time of mourning."

Jane smiled and nodded, but understood him perfectly. Letty, the newly rich and propertied Dowager Viscountess Fanshawe, was something of a catch now, even for the younger son of a marquess.

St. Leger diminished himself further in her estimation by saying, "Of course, Lady Fanshawe is quite right to be selective in her companions. I hope, however, when there is a _family_ gathering, she will relent."

How this handsome young man could imagine himself to be part of Letty's family circle was not entirely clear to Jane. He was the second cousin, once removed, of Letty's sister's husband. Jane was amused at the tangle of relationships in London—so like the complicated family ties of South Carolina. Still, his claim would have been a little far-fetched, even there. She gave him a bright, artificial smile, and said nothing.

Once the gentlemen finally left, Penelope proposed they go out and see some friends she could no longer put off visiting. Jane did not want to leave Letty, and Letty was not prepared to chat with women she had never met, five days after her husband's death. Jane was busy with her husband's book, and was glad to have some quiet time to work in the morning room. However, shortly after the two Tavington sisters and Emily Martingale had left to pay their calls, Letty became restless, and finally insisted her barouche be summoned.

"I have just got to see the house, sister!" she fretted. "I can't stop thinking about it! Please come with me. I promise not to stay long, but I must have a peep inside. Harmonia, don't you want to see the house?"

Harmonia desperately wanted to go—anywhere—but did not want to irritate Mrs. Tavington. "Only if you're sure you're well enough, Lady Fanshawe. You must take great care."

Jane, seeing how unhappy Letty was, agreed that they could go for a little while. It was a short journey, after all, and the barouche could wait while Letty inspected her property. Who knew what it would be like? If it were in poor condition, it would be some time before Letty could live there.

They dressed quickly. Harmonia thought they looked like a trio of black crows. The top of the barouche was put up, since a widow ought not to be traveling in an open carriage, and very soon they were outside and in the coach. Dunner rode up in front with the coachman, since Letty felt he should have a look as well. A man was always useful to have about.

They turned into Mayfair Row and Lettylooked eagerly about. "Is that it?"

"No, that is Clarges Street, dearest. There is one more. Ned Protheroe said the house sits on the corner of Mayfair Row and Half Moon Street."

"Oh, I cannot wait!"

They were moving at a brisk trot. The air was cool but refreshing, the light breeze sweeping away the worst of the odors. Dunner and Letty's coachman were muttering together, pointing out the way, and nodding in approval of the neighboring houses. "—very respectable appearance—"

"This must be Half Moon Street! That must be the house!" Harmonia cried, and then put a hand over her mouth.

The coachman executed the turn carefully and the horses stopped before a tall house of brick and stone. It was not as large as the house on Mortimer Square, but it was far from the narrowest on Half Moon Street. There was a wide door, and deep windows on either side. The house had three rows of windows above the ground floor. The door, the lantern, the area: all were well kept-up. Letty glanced at Jane with excitement, as Dunner handed the ladies down.

"Oh! I hope I have not forgotten the key!" Letty worried.

"It is right here, dearest," Jane said patiently. "You gave it to me, remember? Here, Dunner, take the key and open the door."

The butler stepped smartly to the threshold. With a brief rattle, the door was open, and the three ladies crowded eagerly inside.

"It is dark—" Letty murmured.

"Beg pardon, my lady," Dunner said. "The windows are shuttered and locked. I shall open them and let in a bit of light."

"Oh, yes, do," Letty urged him. "This is nice," she said, turning all about to see the entry hall. One shutter opened, and then another, and the space was flooded with sunshine.

"Oh, what a pretty colour!" Harmonia declared. "Just look! It must be freshly painted!"

In luscious contrast to the brilliant white of the elaborate plaster work, the wall were tinted in a delicate peach—neither a true pink, nor the yellowish color of an apricot, but something just in between. It was a soft, lovely, feminine color, warm but refined. The staircase was white marble, with balusters of black ironwork. Dunner moved about quickly, opening doors and shutters. Soon they were glimpsing tantalizing corners of the rooms leading off the hall, all painted the same lovely color.

"It doesn't smell very strong," Jane said, shaking her head. "Not within the past month, at least, but it does look very clean and fresh. Letty!" she said, startled. "There is a letter for you on the table here in the hall!"

"For me?"

"There is no other Lady Fanshawe present," Jane laughed. Letty took the letter, and looked at it, her face growing grave.

"It is in Lord Fanshawe's handwriting," she told them. Quickly she broke the seal, and read aloud.

_"My dear Lady Fanshawe—_

_Alas. If you are reading this, then I fear I have gone to my reward—whatever that might be. I took the liberty of setting this charming nest in order for you. It is better to be prepared, in case you might someday need a refuge. I hope the color is agreeable to you. I pondered the matter at some length. It is just the shade of your blushes. No doubt you will make alterations to suit your own admirable taste, but the house stands ready for its mistress. May this prove a place of rest and delight._

_Allow me the honour of once again expressing my gratitude for your presence at the end of my life. Would it have been earlier, but we cannot cavil at Fortune's finest gifts, even if they arrive rather tardily._

_I am, Madam, your most admiring, fortunate, and devoted husband,_

_James de Vere, Viscount Fanshawe"_

"That was very kindly thought of," Harmonia said solemnly.

Jane grimaced, annoyed to see Letty's softened expression. _Now she will think of him fondly, the awful old man._

"Yes, very kind," Letty agreed. "Lord Fanshawe was always very generous. How beautiful everything is! There is the dining room. Let us go in. Oh, sister! I can invite you to dinner! How exciting!"

They wandered happily over the ground floor, admiring the handsome furniture and the beautiful, well-chosen colors. Down the hall from the dining room was an enchanting morning room, furnished with a pair of luxurious velvet-covered sofas. There was a dainty escritoire to write upon, and a pair of tall bookshelves, with the beginnings of an interesting library. Letty was pleased to see that there was plenty of room for the books she had bought herself, and more space yet for the books she could select as she liked. Already the shelves boasted an illustrated mythology, a large atlas, a row of histories, and some novels, all elegantly bound in buttery-soft leather…

"I shall spend a great deal of time here."

There was a little parlor near the front door, which Jane thought, from its more sober appearance, to be intended as a place to receive men of business and tradespeople. There was a charming breakfast room—a pleasantly intimate place for private meals.

"I want to go below stairs," Letty told Dunner. "I must make certain that the servants have decent quarters, too."

The kitchen, the servants' hall, some small rooms for the cook and the menservants: everything was in perfect order, if very plain. A door let up the stairs to the area in front, and another behind to the mews. Jane persuaded Letty that she really did not have to explore the coachman's quarters that very day. Instead, they went upstairs to admire the public rooms: a creamy white ballroom, with a fantasy of plaster gods and goddesses promenading across the ceiling; an exquisitely civilized drawing room, with large murals of garden scenes inset in gilded recesses. A very striking portrait of Lord Fanshawe, painted when he was many years younger, hung above the magnificent chimneypiece.

"He's right here, watching you," Jane protested.

"Oh, sister!" laughed Letty, "I can't complain. This is all his gift, anyway. I ought to remember him. What a nice picture! He is so handsome. I wish I had known him then," she added, rather wistfully. "Besides, it is nice to have a picture of my child's father. Look at this mantel! I love it, with the beautiful nymphs holding it up. See the musical instruments carved along the top. What a gorgeous room. Dunner, remove some of the dustcloths. I want to see how the chairs are covered. And what is that?"

It was a grand pianoforte. Letty and Harmonia and Jane all exclaimed at once, and hurried to admire it. "How very modern!" Letty said. She struck a few notes. "I can have it tuned just before I come here to live. How nice everything is!"

Harmonia was looking about, bright eyed. It was not as grand as Fanshawe House, but it was very up-to-date and elegant. She was glowing with hope, after having seen the ballroom. Last night, Miss Penelope had taken her aside, and told her that she and her sisters had not been allowed to come out until they were eighteen. It was very common. She must mourn for a year, of course, but then she would be eighteen, and Miss Penelope was sure Lady Fanshawe would bring her out in some fashion or other.

_"And you will have a year to improve yourself,"_ Miss Penelope had added encouragingly. _"A year to refine your accomplishments. It is so much easier to do that with private masters, than in the crowding and noise of a school! After the first few weeks of mourning are over, perhaps Lady Fanshawe might begin going out and seeing the picture galleries and the museums, and hearing the concerts. She shall no doubt take you along, even though you are not out. You can dine with us here, of course, and you will meet many interesting people that way. Perhaps she might even take you to call on your old friends at school."_

These were all very exciting prospects. Harmonia expected that living with Lady Fanshawe—who was so sweet and obliging—would be much nicer than living with Lord Fanshawe. It would be just the two of them, after all, until the child was born. Harmonia sighed, thinking of the child. It would be horrid if Lady Fanshawe no longer cared to have Harmonia about after the child was born. Harmonia vowed to be very nice to the Tavington children, and show Lady Fanshawe that she would be no trouble, even after the arrival of her son or daughter.

"Would you like to see the bedchambers, Harmonia?" Lady Fanshawe was asking.

"Oh, yes!" she cried, and ran up the stairs, dying to see what there was. Since the house was on a corner, there were additional windows on the north side of the house. One brightened the upstairs hall. There appeared to be an oculus skylight over the staircase, but it too was shuttered, and Letty did not want Dunner to go to the trouble of climbing up to the roof. There would be time enough when they moved in.

The next highest hall led them to four large bedchambers, and a maze of smaller rooms. There was a very modern and convenient water closet. Harmonia ran ahead, opening doors eagerly ahead of the butler.

"Oh!" she cried. "This must be meant to be your room, Lady Fanshawe! It is the biggest, and has a magnificent bed!"

Letty was growing tired, but was not ready to leave without seeing where she would lay her head. Dunner bustled to open the shutters, and dustmotes danced in the cool sunlight. Letty took a deep breath, and then another.

"Well," Jane remarked. "This is very fine!"

The room was very fine—stupendously fine, in fact—but not garish. The blue of the silk-covered walls and the hangings draping the windows and the bed was a soft sea blue, restful and dreamy. The "magnificent" bed was just that: with a carved and gilded tester of splendid workmanship. There were graceful, inviting chairs, and tables whose tops were astonishing pictures of marquetry and inlay. A long pier glass reflected the splendour. Through a door was a large, charming dressing room, with a silken daybed and a large, well-appointed dressing table. Letty sighed with pleasure at all the comfort and beauty that were to be hers.

"Let us find a room for you, Harmonia," she suggested.

The girl ran across the hall to the opposite side, hoping for the room that faced the street. It was in darkness, and she called impatiently, "Please, Dunner! I'd like to see this one!"

Jane snorted, knowing and cynical, but Letty only smiled, and waved Dunner on.

Light shone through the tall window, and Harmonia nodded seriously. It was a large, sunny room, in a brighter yellow than her room at Fanshawe House. The bed was tall and wide, and hung with draperies the color of ripe wheat. Even without a fire, the room seemed pleasantly warm. Jane thought it very nice, and said so, and but refrained from saying that it was nicer than the girl deserved. Letty waited patiently, and Harmonia said, "Yes. This is just right. May I have this room, Lady Fanshawe?"

"Yes, of course. Oh, look, what a nice writing table! Is there anything you would like to change?"

"Oh, no! Nothing! It is quite perfect. Thank you very much for permitting me to stay with you, Lady Fanshawe, in your beautiful house. I shall be no trouble, I promise you!"

Jane rolled her eyes, but not so the other two could notice. If the girl was showing herself grateful, that was only proper. She only hoped this proper behavior would last. "I think we should go now, Letty darling. You look tired. We can inspect the upstairs maids' quarters another day."

"Just a little longer, please. I need to see which room I shall have for my nursery. Do you think it should be down here, or is there one upstairs?"

Jane lowered her voice discreetly, so that Harmonia, who was eagerly examining every detail of her own promised room, could not hear. "It depends upon whether you mean to nurse the child or not. If you do, then you will want the little one close by. You can always move him upstairs to a regular nursery when he is weaned, or you employ a wet nurse."

Letty looked uncertain. "Mama would have wanted me to suckle my own baby."

"Well, that must be your decision. You have seen how much time and trouble it is, from watching what I go through! I can never be gone long from the children, and I have to pad my clothing to keep it dry, and sometimes I am very sore. On the other hand—"

"—on the other hand, it is better for the child."

"As I say, you must decide. Letty, we can come back another day. Let us go home and have a good hot cup of chocolate to warm you. Doesn't that sound nice?"

Reluctantly, Letty let herself be persuaded. She was really quite tired of walking and climbing stairs. Dunner was told to lock the shutters, while they went down to sit in the adorable morning room. Jane put her arm in Letty's to steady her on the stairs, and they walked down slowly, admiring as they went. Once seated in the morning room, Letty stroked the velvet of the sofa, thinking the blush-peach one of the prettiest colors she had ever seen. She might embroider some cushions for the sofa and the chairs…perhaps a garland of roses on pale green silk…

She nearly fell asleep in the barouche during the short drive home. Dunner helped her out rather anxiously, and they moved into Jane's morning room almost before she knew where she was. There she saw the blue damask of the sofa and laughed.

"I can tell where I am by color!" Secretly, she thought her own house a thousand times prettier than Jane's, for all that the house of Mortimer Square was so much bigger. Hers was the prettiest house in the world, prettier even than Fanshawe House, which had been the epitome of elegance and taste. Her morning room was just as nice, in its own way, as the Painted Parlour. A little instrument would be just the thing, to make it the perfect sitting room. Yes, it was a pretty house, indeed: certainly prettier than Salton Park, which was ridiculously huge and pretentious. _Her_ house was just the right size, and full of lovely things. She had a house of her own…

Jane put a cushion under her head. "Let us let her sleep until the chocolate comes," she whispered. Harmonia nodded, rather nervous at the prospect of a tete-a-tete with the fearsome Mrs. Tavington.

"I hope you and my sister will find each other's company agreeable," Jane said softly. "She is a sweet soul, and has suffered a good deal."

"Oh, yes," Harmonia whispered back. "Lady Fanshawe is lovely. I think I shall enjoy living with her very much. We both like music and we shall have each other to talk to. Isn't the house marvelous?"

Jane agreed, and they conversed quietly and civilly while they waited for the hot water and the chocolate set to be brought in to them. Jane liked to make the chocolate herself, and wanted to make enough that her sisters-in-law could have some when they returned.

The tray was just set before them, when the front door was opened to loud, frightened female voices. Caroline, Penelope, and Emily had returned, and from the sound of it, they were very upset. Letty awakened at the noise, and looked about. Jane rose and hurried to the hall to see what was the matter.

"Oh, Jane!" Caroline cried. "A man tried to force his way into the carriage! He spoke to us so coarsely, and thrust a letter for John and William upon us!"

"Who was he?" Jane asked, shocked. "Was he some sort of petitioner?"

Caroline was trembling, but answered, "I cannot think so. His behavior was not such to dispose our brothers favorably toward him."

"He actually declared that if his letter was not answered, we would suffer worse, and that we had best keep watch on our children," Emily cried, terrified. "What dreadful wickedness, to threaten little children. He said 'I know where you live!' in the most sinister way! Please, Rivers," she called to the butler, who looked at her in bewildered alarm. "Please lock the door very tightly and send for Sir John!"

"I have never been so frightened!" Caroline told Jane, leaning against her as Jane led them quickly into the morning room.

"You all need a good hot drink," Jane said briskly. "I was just making some chocolate for us. Yes, Rivers, lock the door. It will make us all easier. The gentlemen will be home soon—at least Sir John will be—"

In fact, the brothers arrived together, in a jolly mood, laughing together, wondering why the door had to be unlocked before they could come in.

"Think we're the bogeymen, eh, Rivers?" John smiled.

Rivers lowered his voice. "The ladies had a fright when they were out today, gentlemen," he warned them. "They are in the morning room, talking it over."

"Good God!" Tavington was alarmed. "What has happened?" He hurried down the hall, anxious to see them.

John was beside him, and asked the butler over his shoulder, "Is Mrs. Martingale all right?"

There was no time for Rivers to answer, for the men were in the room in an instant, and were just as instantly assailed by their ladies, all telling the story at once. The women stopped almost immediately, abashed, and looked at each other, until Jane looked her encouragement at Caroline, as being the most likely to tell a coherent tale.

"We were coming back from the Pagets: Penelope, Mrs. Martingale, and I—"

"Jane was not with you?" Tavington asked.

"No—she and Lady Fanshawe stayed behind—" Caroline shivered, and went on, "—we were coming back, when suddenly a great brute of a man, with his face muffled by his cravat, leaped onto the side of our coach and clung there, leering at us. He threatened us, and told us he knew where we lived, and that "Sir John and Colonel Tavington had better reply to this letter," or we would suffer worse, and that we should keep a watch on the children! Good old Roberts tried to hit him with the coach whip, but before he could, the man threw a letter at us, and told us to see that you read it, and then he uttered some coarse words and jumped away and fled."

Tavington took a deep breath, and in a terrible voice, asked, "Where is the letter?"

Penelope handed it to him. John crowded close beside his brother. "Pen! You didn't read it?"

His sisters looked at him, astonished. "It is not addressed to us, John." Penelope told him indignantly. "I would no more read your private letters than I would pick your pocket!"

"Yes, yes, very commendable, my dear Pen," Tavington said impatiently, cracking the seal open without delay.

_Deliver the documents by noon tomorrow or suffer the consequences. _

_Harmodius_

"Infernal impudence!" shouted Sir John. "I won't have it!"

Tavington snarled. "This has gone too far!"

"What does it mean?" begged Emily.

The two men looked at one another. Tavington gave his brother a nod.

Sir John said, "Our mother seems to have had some valuable documents. She mentioned them in her will, but we have not been able to produce them. A number of people seem very interested in them, and this is not the first threat we have received."

"But what kind of documents could they be?" Caroline wondered, distressed.

"We don't know, Caro," Tavington told her gently. "We know only that Mamma had them in what she described as a box of ivory and ebony. Do you recall? She said we could make what use of them we could, but we cannot find them. We have looked everywhere."

Letty had a horrible, sinking feeling. How could she have forgotten? "Oh! The ivory box! Lord Fanshawe told me all about it!"

Everyone turned to her, bewildered.

"What do you mean, dearest? Jane asked her. "What do you know about the box?"

"I am so sorry! With all that happened to me, I forgot all about it! He told me just after he was so horrid to all of you, and made me promise never to put the information to paper, but—" her face lit with joy-- "he did not make me promise not to _tell_ you about it!"

"Lett—Lady Fanshawe," Tavington said with forced calm, "if you know something, tell us now."

"Well, when I told Lord Fanshawe that you were looking for the box, and worried about it, he thought it very amusing. I reproached him for laughing, but he told me that you would never find it, because you were looking in places where Lady Cecily might have hidden it. He said that she had not had the box since---1765, I think—"

The two brothers exchanged a quick, surprised look, already rearranging their assumptions about the contents.

Letty paused, struggling to remember the conversation accurately. "She did not have it, because your father took it from her. He told Lord Fanshawe that he did not want Lady Cecily to profit from it, and that he wanted Lord Fanshawe to take the box and keep it so she could not lay her hands upon it. Lord Fanshawe never looked inside himself, and your father took sick and died before it could be returned to him—"

Tavington interrupted in smothered excitement. "The box is at Fanshawe House? Have you seen it?"

"No!" Letty said, wanting to finish her story. "Lord Fanshawe tried to return it to your father when he was sick, but was never given any time alone with him. He said--" here Letty felt very uncomfortable. "He said that on the day of your father's funeral, he slipped it into the coffin just before it was closed."

A stunned silence. The Tavingtons were uniformly horrified. Emily was shocked. Jane was disgusted. Harmonia James had never heard such a gloriously Gothick tale.

"He said the box was in our father's coffin?" John repeated, trying to take it all in.

"So he said," Letty said, feeling very sorry she had failed to tell them before, and more gently. "I think he was telling the truth, for he did not expect me to be able to tell you about it. He thought it so amusing. He said he was still considering telling you, just to see what you would do."

"Why—that—" Jane stopped, knowing her opinion of Lord Fanshawe was not fit for her sister's ears.

"Exactly," Tavington agreed sardonically.

"The box is in Papa's tomb at Wargrave?" Penelope quavered, looking helplessly at Caroline.

"What _are_ we going to do?" Jane asked.

"_You_ are going to do _nothing_," Tavington snapped. "John and I shall ride to Wargrave this very night and retrieve the wretched object!"

Every woman in the room protested at once. A shrilling noise of outrage and fright fluttered up like the calls of hunted birds.

"Oh, no!"

"Will! John! Do not, I pray you!"

"You cannot leave us!" Emily cried. "Oh, please, John! Don't leave us! That man was so cruel-looking! Fanny—"

John sat down by her, and took her hand, utterly miserable. He raised imploring eyes to his brother.

Letty was shaking her head, and Harmonia could hardly wait to hear what would be said next.

Jane spoke up, frowning. "If you go, we should all go. We shall be safer together. After the villains have shown they do not hesitate to threaten women and children, it would be unsafe for us to be left alone. Or do you wish _me_ to defend the house?" she asked her husband, her brows raised in challenge.

Tavington growled, and kicked his way to the window. He stood staring outside, not trusting himself to speak.

"We must go as soon as possible," John objected weakly. "We cannot take the carriages in the dark all that distance. It is a four-hour journey if we go by coach. Lady Fanshawe could not endure it—"

"Of course I can—" Letty said, trying to be brave. "My sister would be unhappy to leave me behind. Harmonia and I shall go with you. And who can say that if you left, we might not find ourselves the targets of these wicked men? My sister is right. We should all go."

"We shall leave tomorrow as early as possible," Jane declared, pressing her advantage. "We shall call the carriages in the morning, and not tell anyone our plans. We can be at Wargrave by noon." She tossed her curls triumphantly at her husband. "You shall just have to put up with us!"

Tavington growled again, hating that she was right.

* * *

**Next: Shadows in the Crypt**

Note: Mayfair Row is now Curzon Street

Thank you to my reviewers! Your support has helped me produce fanfic. I have now posted over one million words as of this chapter.


	69. Shadows in the Crypt

**Note: I must make an editorial change here due to a typo. Sir Jack died in 1765, not 1761, and the box was immured with him then.**

**Chapter 69: Shadows in the Crypt**

It had rained again. The roads heading north out of London were mud tracks. If Tavington had planned an outing, it would not have been on this day, but there was no choice in the matter. They must get to Wargrave as soon as possible. To the surprise of the servants, the carriages were called for early in the morning. Nothing was said about the destination. Tavington wanted to keep their business a secret until the last moment.

Some people needed to be apprised, though. Tavington himself rode to the Protheroe's house on Tudor Street before breakfast.

The startled manservant who opened the door clearly thought it was too early for a call.

"The master is at his breakfast, sir—"

"I need to see him and my sister instantly. Take me to them." When necessary, it was best to tell servants what he intended to do, rather than letting them think about it. Without further discussion, he pushed past the surprised man and strode swiftly to the dining parlor.

"William!" Lucy called in alarm. "What is wrong?"

Protheroe rose at the sight of him, and came forward. "You have news. Will you have some breakfast?"

Hesitating only a moment, Tavington said, "I thank you. I did not have time at home." He shut the door behind him, and lowered his voice, as he sat down and let Lucy pour him a cup of tea. "I have news for your ears only. We have news of the box. It is at Wargrave Cross Church."

Cutting through the hushed exclamations, Tavington told them Letty's story. "—So even if it is not true, we must investigate it. We are all going, because—" Here he took a deep breath. "—there have been threats, Protheroe. You might wish to stay close to home until I send word. Lucy—you and Ned should keep to the house." He felt he must tell them about yesterday's confrontation. Lucy was concerned for her sisters. Protheroe looked very grave, but was still thinking about the ramifications of Letty's story. He politely refrained from pointing out that he had told the Tavington brothers previously that they should be looking for the papers at Wargrave.

"I am puzzled, I confess. If the documents are so old—from twenty years past, it seems—why are they so valuable? Surely any scandal from those days would have died of old age!"

"I've no idea. I had thought it involved the Prince of Wales, but obviously I was wrong. What could have happened in those days that would still be of any moment now? Could it involve the old king? Perhaps he left a few more bastards to be provided for? The present king has never dabbled in mistresses or scandal—"

"Well—" objected Lucy, hesitantly. "There were those stories—" When the two men looked at here. She cocked her head with a hint of mischief. "Well, all those years when I was in society, I did listen to simply heaps of gossip! You know, I'm sure, that Lady Sarah Lennox thought the King was going to ask for her hand, and then was beyond humiliated when he married the German princess instead."

"Well," Tavington dismissed this with a sneer. "that disgrace was not the King's, but the Lennox family's. Yes, everyone knows how Lady Sarah ran wild until she married Napier. Typical of that family. She's aunt to the Foxes, after all."

"Please don't start on the Whigs so early in the morning, Will," Lucy said in exasperation. "Let me see—there was _something_ about the King when he was young, but I cannot remember it. Mamma would gossip with Lady Anne Wexham, who was the Princess of Wales' chief lady of the bedchamber. They were good friends, until Lady Anne died—oh—years ago. Before the King married, there might have been _someone_—someone not in society."

Tavington laughed. "Oh? 'Farmer George' might have a bastard, after all? There would be some laughter all around, I suppose, but I hardly see that the world would care that much—"

Protheroe cut his eggs very precisely, considering the matter. "Perhaps the King might, though? It would make him look a great hypocrite. And with all the disasters about him, having his personal life called into question as well might seem too much."

"What? Who would care if he had a mistress before he was married? Would he be embarrassed for the world to know that he would actually have congress with a woman outside of marriage? Forgive me, Lucy. That was coarse."

"It certainly was. Eat your bacon."

-----

Letty insisted that a note be sent to Bellini, so that he not come all the way in the wet to see her as he did everyday. She waited until Tavington had left for the Protheroes, and then gave Dunner the note to personally deliver.

_My good friend—_

_Family business forces me to leave the city for a few days. It is very secret, and I cannot tell you, on my honor, what it is. I am very well, and feel stronger everyday. I shall write as soon as I return. Do not tell anyone about this note._

_Forgive the mystery. It is not of my choosing. We shall soon be making music once more._

_L. F._

One more messenger must be sent. They could not simply arrive at Wargrave without some warning. Peter would be sent ahead on horseback to give the household at least an hour's notice. He left in good time. The Tavington brothers had considered giving him a written message for Bordon, but decided against it. All they were telling the servants was that they had suddenly decided that Mrs. Martingale ought to see her future home, and that Lady Fanshawe would be the better for some rest and quiet in the country. If Peter were to be accosted, they did not want him to have any information that an enemy could use against the family.

Jane tried to make the carriages as comfortable as possible with blankets and cushions and baskets of refreshments. She was not sure that it was a good idea for Letty to ride with three little boys, but the babies needed to be close to Jane, and Letty wanted very much to be with her sister. Thus, the Tavington coach contained the two sisters, Harmonia James, Rose and the children. On the coachman's box with Scoggins rode Dunner. In Sir John's coach rode the baronet with his fiancée, Fanny and her nurse; and Caroline and Penelope. The ladies' maids followed in Letty's barouche. The valets accompanied the coachmen. Only Tavington did not ride in the coaches, but elected to be on horseback, scouting the road ahead. The coachmen were ordered to keep together and to keep a good watch.

Jane and her companions were very much occupied with keeping Ash quiet and entertained. He was happy enough to "go see Moll," but the journey to Wargrave was a long one for an active little boy. Tom, too, was growing very independent, and fussed and struggled as they tried to keep him still. The women told a round of stories and sang songs. After an hour or so, the babies napped, and Ash began talking about Fanny. Unknown to Jane, Fanny was complaining about the absence of Ash. There was a general halt sometime later, and to Jane's unspeakable relief, Ash went to ride with his new friend Fanny, and the children, a little closer in age than Ash and the babies, were better amused together, listening to Sir John's deep voice raised in old English ballads. or telling them the story of "Mister Fox."

After a time, Fanny and Ash also grew drowsy, and the Tavington sisters told Emily more about Wargrave and the neighborhood, and the neighbors, and about the interesting characters she would meet.

"The clergy are all lovely people," Caroline informed Emily. "And at Wargrave Cross, close at hand, are the Bordons. Mr. Bordon was a soldier and a comrade of Will's until John gave him the living last year. He and his wife are delightful! They have two sweet children, and the elder is a girl, just Fanny's age."

Fanny stirred a little, hearing her name mentioned. Her mother cuddled her closer and smiled, glad that Fanny would have a playmate.

Penelope added, "Mr. Somerville, the steward, is a bachelor, and quite respectable. And then—" she blushed self-consciously, "the schoolmaster, Mr. Strakes, is a remarkable man. Very learned and genteel. He is a grandson of the old Duke of Barcaster."

"Really?' Emily asked in astonishment. "A country schoolmaster? Was he disinherited?"

"No," Penelope told her with a touch of indignation. "His mother married beneath her station, but the duke always supported his grandson. After his death, the new duke and his family suppressed the will and refused to pay Mr. Strakes his grandfather's bequest. Of course, without the necessary money for lawyers, Mr. Strakes had no recourse."

"How wicked," Emily sympathized, thinking of her marriage portion, frittered and gambled away by Peter Martingale. "How cruel and dishonest. Disrespectful of the dead as well. I am very sorry for Mr. Strakes."

John shrugged. "His loss is our gain. A fine schoolmaster—if a bit strict—at least to Will and me—" he grinned boyishly at Emily. "It's always pleasant to have a gentlemanlike man to dine with in the country. If we have a look at those Roman remains in the spring, I daresay he'll be in the thick of it."

"All the same," Penelope reminded him, "you should have the builders repair his cottage. I think I told you of it before. When we were at Wargrave for Mamma's funeral, I noticed it was quite forlorn. Oh, and the thatchers, too. His roof is not what it should be."

Caroline turned her head away and smiled. Penelope had always had a soft spot for Mr. Strakes, from the time they were girls and he was newly come to Wargrave—a tall, dark young man. Caroline did not think him the least handsome, with his beaky nose and grim air, but Penelope had regarded him as a man of mystery. Apparently, the sentiments had not faded.

Meanwhile, in the Tavington carriage, there was quiet. With the babies napping, and Ash no longer demanding everyone's attention, Letty was able to rest, her head on Jane's shoulder. Rose nodded herself, and Jane was lost in her thoughts. She had brought William's book with her, and would finish her work on it whenever she might have an odd hour or two. The references in it to her kind friend Lieutenant Nettles made her sorry that they were unlikely to meet again in life. And then there was the final chapter, which still seemed unsatisfactory to her…

Only Harmonia watched the passing scene with any interest. She had never been anywhere but London since she could remember. Even in March there was much to see, and picturesque villages and cottages were new to her. Even farm wagons and sheep grazing in a meadow were objects of curiosity. She had hoped that Lady Fanshawe would move immediately to the house on Half Moon Street. However, she did not object to the novelty of a country house visit. Sir John wished to show his intended his property in the country called Wargrave Hall. Harmonia could not understand such old people marrying. It seemed faintly indecent. Older men married all the time, of course, but Mrs. Martingale was a widow, and must be over thirty years old! She had said as much to Lady Fanshawe, who told her it was none of their affair. Harmonia submitted to that, and consoled herself with the idea of telling her old school friends about her visit to "the estate of Sir John Tavington, my step-mother's brother-in-law."

Of course there was more to it. The Tavington ladies had been accosted yesterday by a ruffian, and there was a mystery involved. The Tavingtons were doing their best to keep it quiet, but Harmonia had heard them talk about a box and Wargrave Church and an ancestral tomb! What an exciting adventure! Lady Fanshawe had told her she must say nothing to anyone, and most especially nothing that the servants might overhear. Happily imagining shadowy crypts and leering villains, her eyes fell shut with the rhythm of the coach wheels, and she slept for some time.

Jane saw it all. She smiled at the sight of everyone else in her coach, all of them lolling about in unconscious attitudes, heads thrown back or noses squashed against the wall. Letty, thank Heaven, had removed her hat, and so Jane was no longer being tickled by the innumerable plumes of her sister's magnificent headgear. Her sweet-scented hair, curls piled high, gently teased Jane's cheek. Despite the danger they might be in, Jane was feeling rather happy. Her sister was sitting by her side, free of her odious marriage, restored to health and raised to prosperity. Her children were growing strong and beautiful, and her husband was riding along—there he was now!—escorting her and protecting her and looking wonderfully handsome and dashing whilst doing it. The triple capes of his greatcoat billowed out behind him very dramatically as he galloped along on his splendid steed. Jane smiled, watching him until he spurred on a little ahead, and could no longer be seen through the little window.

She had not realized that she was asleep until Tom awakened her, very indignantly wanting his elevenses. Jane did not want to suckle the boys in front of a comparative stranger like Harmonia James, so she had planned ahead. She and the sleepy Rose produced a covered pot from the hamper under the seat, and Jane held the boy on her lap while Rose helped him to a little bowl of sweet porridge with finely-chopped apples. William Francis stirred, and looked hopefully at the treat.

"I'll help him, sister," Letty offered. "I love holding him. Here, my sweet boy, come to Aunt Letty. Harmonia, dish him out some of the porridge, too. That is his porringer and spoon—yes, those. Lord Rawdon gave him those when he was christened."

Harmonia knew nothing about boys or babies, and it was with great trepidation that she helped feed one of the alien creatures. She watched what was being done, and put the laden spoon in the open pink mouth . This was apparently the correct thing to do, for William Francis granted her a brief, sweet smile before opening wide for more. He smacked his lips, his green eyes fixed on Harmonia. She yielded to an unaccountable impulse to make a silly face. This was apparently acceptable entertainment. Harmonia found that babies could, in the right circumstances, be very engaging creatures.

Peter, despite a few stops he had made on the way, had arrived in good time, and so by the time the Tavington cavalcade was rumbling through the village, the servants were already preparing to come out and greet Sir John and his guests. The maids had hastily made up the requisite number of beds, and extra provisions had been brought in.

Mrs. Smith nearly tore her hair at the number of the party, and vowed to send to Chelmsford that very day for additional supplies. Sir John had invited his brother and six ladies! There would be four children in the nursery! If they stayed anytime at all, there would be more guests at the table. Mrs. Tavington would be of the party, of course, and Mrs. Smith was anxious to show that lady that her confidence in her had not been misplaced. Even more frightening, Peter had told them that Sir John was bringing his intended bride. Mrs. Smith hoped she would not be one of those high-handed, fine London ladies, for whom nothing was ever good enough.

Tom Young was surprised himself, and a little put out. The Tavingtons had not seemed the sort to fly about without giving a body proper notice. He sent word to Moll at the cottage, and she came up to the house and bustled as she set the nursery to rights.

"I'll be mighty happy to see them! And our Lady Fanshawe is coming too! Do her good to get some air out here in the country. I'd have guessed the old lord was good for a few more years, but the hand of God is on us all. Don't you worry none, Tom. I'll finish up in here, and help out with the other beds. Could be that this widow woman of Sir John's wants to see what she's getting afore she agrees to tie the knot."

Young thought this might be true, and set about making the best impression he could on Sir John's behalf. It was very pleasant for the servants to have the house and grounds to themselves, but after all, they really belonged to Sir John. He had a right to be here whenever he liked. As a conscientious butler, Young was very glad that he had just obtained a fresh crate of candles.

Moll saw the carriages coming, from her vantage point on the second floor. She was not the only person to witness their arrival.

Robert Bordon was in his study, working on his sermon for the following Sunday, when he became aware of the sound of quick hoofbeats. He looked up and saw, of all people, his friend Tavington, outside on horseback, waving to him. He dashed to the front door and stepped outside, not pausing to put on his coat.

A little further down the road, three carriages were approaching. Tavington called out, "A surprise visit, Bordon!" He walked his horse closer and leaned down, speaking low. "We have had some startling news and will need to confer with you. Come up to the Hall as soon as you can, I pray you."

"Of course."

He hardly had time to blink when Tavington was gone, cantering back to join the procession. _What is he at now? An escapade? Who are all these people?_

"Who is it, my love?" Harriet asked, coming to the door. "Oh! Come inside! You'll catch your death!" But she paused too, as the carriages thundered by, and then smiled brilliantly back as Jane waved to her in passing. "So soon! Sukey from the Hall was just here, telling the news. Sir John is bringing his betrothed. Did you know they were coming?"

"Not at all. Tavington asked me to come up and talk to him. Something's afoot, it would seem. I must go at once."

"You must wear your coat at once!" Harriet insisted, laughing.

Sir John's carriage paused briefly in front of the house. Emily's Martingale's artless joy and wonder were all that Sir John had hoped for. Her hand found his, and she gave him a quick smile as she took in the beauties of Wargrave Hall. Caroline and Penelope loved her even more, for loving the place so dear to them. Ash chattered happily to Fanny about "Wambler," and his friend Moll.

The servants met them at the wide front door, and Mrs. Martingale was introduced to each of them. Rambler was there too, his russet coat brushed to a mellow shine, his tail wagging at the appearance of so many people he loved. Ash squealed at the sight of him, and threw his arms around the dog's neck, tumbling onto his bottom as Rambler licked his face.

John had told his sister-in-law beforehand that he would be grateful if she would act as hostess, this last time before the Hall was to have a new Lady Tavington. Jane had therefore given some thought as to whom was to be placed where. She and William would stay in their former bedchamber, of course. Sir John was in the Great Chamber by right, and she decided to put Mrs. Martingale in the Tapestry Room at the same end of the house. Caroline and Penelope wished to be in their old rooms, and these were in better condition than they had been a month before. Harmonia she put in the Print Room, and Letty in the pretty room beside her own which had been Moll's. New hangings and a fresh coverlet on the big bed had given it the new name of the Rose Room. The children were taken to the nursery and Jane was busy with them for some time. Ladies and maids rested and washed and prepared themselves, as necessary. A general tour was settled on for later in the afternoon.

The Tavington brothers had closeted themselves in the library almost immediately, with orders to admit Mr. Bordon as soon as he arrived. He came soon, and was surprised by his two friends' air of urgency and secrecy.

Three glasses of good brandy were poured, the servants dismissed, the doors closed, and Tavington explained what had brought them there today.

"My dear Bordon, when my mother died in January, she mentioned in her will a box of ivory and ebony, which she intimated contained valuable documents. We have been approached by various parties wishing to obtain them, but until yesterday we had no idea how to find the box."

"And may I ask what happened yesterday?"

"Well—as you may know—or may not know—Lord Fanshawe died last Monday."

"Yes, I saw it in the paper two days ago. Please convey my condolences to Lady Fanshawe."

John snorted. "There's a story in itself. Lady Fanshawe is here with us. We'll tell you about that in a bit, but we'll start with our own concerns."

Tavington agreed. "Yes. First things first. Fanshawe told his lady that he knew where the box was, but would not permit her to tell us. With his death and her arrival at our home, she was able to reveal his secret."

The two brothers looked at each other, both reluctant to speak.

Bordon asked, with careful patience. "—And that secret was—?"

"Fanshawe told Letty--" Tavington grimaced, and continued, "that our father gave him the box to conceal from our mother, and that when our father died, Fanshawe placed it in the coffin just before it was shut."

Bordon eyed them without expression. "I see. You wish to retrieve it."

"Sounds bad, I know," Sir John admitted, "but we're hard pressed by these fellows after the papers. We're not sure what they are, but someone is vastly exercised over them."

"We believe they may pertain to a royal scandal of twenty years ago," Tavington said. "We have been threatened, our ladies have been threatened, and now the children. We must have the papers and put an end to this mystery, for good or ill."

"You may find it very ill indeed. Who are these people threatening you? Perhaps it is mere bluster."

Tavington told him the worst. "We believe our mother was murdered."

Bordon paused, thinking it over, and said only, "Good God. You are not certain?"

"Pretty certain," John replied.

"Her regular nurse left our employ under mysterious circumstances, and was replaced by a woman who we think was acting for one of the parties interested in the documents. There was some evidence that she might been searching the house, and when she was surprised, she placed a pillow over our mother's face and smothered her."

"Hard to prove," John said grimly, "but I think it's very likely. We haven't seen her since the day, nor the other nurse either. They seem to have vanished from the earth."

Bordon was considering the matter. "Very well. Someone is serious. Who has contacted you?'

"Sir Edward Claypoole, one of the King's equerries, and an anonymous letter-writer named 'Harmodius.'"

"'Harmodius?'" Bordon mused. "That could be a clue."

"Yes, it's likely some political enemies of the Crown. We believe them behind the recent threats against our family. We would have come here directly last night, but the women were afraid to be left unprotected, and after considering the matter, we were not easy with the idea of leaving them behind."

"You did well. Who else knows about this?"

"Only Protheroe. We told him to watch himself and his family. Not even the servants knew we were coming here until this morning."

"Were you followed?"

"I saw no suspicious characters," Tavington shrugged.

"While you may wish to go to the church immediately," Bordon said slowly, "I think it would be noticed if you went to the crypt now. There are too many people about the church during the day."

"Tonight, then?"

"Very well, " Bordon agreed. "The darkness outside is of no matter, since it is dark in the crypt anyway. You will need lanterns and a pry bar or two. Obviously, you will want only the most trusted servants."

Tavington shook his head. "I don't want to involve the servants in this at all. We should be able to manage among ourselves well enough."

The plan was settled, and after another half hour Bordon went home, eager to confide to Harriet the extraordinary story, and to tell her that they were invited to dinner at the Hall the following day. The Tavington brothers joined their ladies, and the promised grand tour of Wargrave was undertaken, a tour which dawdled over the house for nearly two hours.

Letty and Harmonia joined the tour: Letty because she thought it was the polite thing to do, and Harmonia because she was fascinated. Letty admired dutifully, not extolling the glories of Salton Park, which was so much larger and grander in every way than this place.

Wargrave Hall was interesting, and it was roomy enough, but with its oak wainscoting it looked plain and dark and old-fashioned to her. Wistfully, she thought of the painted ceilings of Salton Park, covered with a riot of gods and goddesses and nymphs and centaurs and fauns. The Grand Saloon, the State Dining Room--even her own lovely parlor had been all satin and gilt and brilliant sunlight. Then, too, there was the little temple in the garden, and the sparkling waterfall tumbling into the green pool below.

She sighed. It would be rude and silly of her to go on about it. She had only been there twice, and she would never see it again. This was a nice house: better than any she had ever seen in South Carolina. Jane was so proud of the work she had done restoring it. Letty liked it better than Colneford Castle, at least. The Great Hall was a fine, big room, and Letty admired the bronze goddesses on the chimneypiece. She knew them from other works of art, and from the book of mythology Lord Fanshawe had given her to read.

"Ceres," she said, studying the womanly figure holding a sheaf of wheat. "And Diana." This figure was lithe and energetic, depicting in the act of drawing a bow, hair loose in the wind. "I think Diana is a pretty name," she murmured, thinking to herself.

All in all, it would be a fine home for Sir John and the sweet-tempered lady he was to marry. And so, she smiled and praised and accepted the invitation to visit again in the summer with every appearance of pleasure. It would have to be the early summer, of course, because she would be close to her confinement by then.

Harmonia, on the other hand, thought the house magnificent. She listened to every word, enraptured at the stories of Wargrave past. Here Queen Elizabeth had stayed during one of her royal progresses. Here Lady Frances Howard had been briefly imprisoned before her trial for poisoning her husband's friend. Here King Charles had been hidden, when he was fleeing the Roundheads. Here Sir Richard Tavington had crossed swords with his brother-in-law, and the two had leapt from the library window, still fighting, at odds over the Hanoverian Succession. She stored up thrilling stories and noble names, hoping for a chance to repeat them to less favored mortals. And what a wonderful room she had here, full of pretty pictures of flowers. Her windows looked over the gardens. Already she could imagine what a good time she would have in the summer, straying through the hedges and walkways. Perhaps she would even have a chance to ride!

Afterwards, Jane went to the nursery, to feed the babies and to have a long talk alone with Moll. She smiled at the sight of Ash and Fanny playing with Rambler, and then beckoned Moll into the next room.

"Letty is resting in her bedchamber She is much recovered now, but she was very weak for a few days," Jane said, at the close of the story of the Storming of Fanshawe House. Somehow, as she nursed her little boys, the story distressed her not at all. It had ended well, and could have ended so very badly.

"I'm mighty glad to hear it. Wish I'd been there. I'd 'a taught that rascally doctor a lesson. Good thing that Italian feller was there with you. Might useful, seeing as how you go off half-cocked sometimes, if you don't mind me saying so, ma'am."

"No, I don't mind. I know I can be—impulsive. If I weren't, I wouldn't be married to Colonel Tavington and here right now. Anyway," she laughed, "you should have seen Mrs. de Vere's face when I snatched her bald!"

Moll laughed with her, shaking her head. "Well, 'tis all for the best. The old lord left your sister well fixed, and the baby's took no harm. She'll be with you now, I reckon."

"No," Jane replied, feeling a little sulky. "Lord Fanshawe left her a house of her own."

"That was right handsome of him!"

"I suppose. It's only a few minutes walk from me, but I had hoped she would stay with us. But she saw the house and fell in love with it."

"A fine place, I reckon."

"Not as big as mine, but very pretty. Lord Fanshawe furnished it with great elegance. There is a portrait of him in the drawing room. Letty is so excited. As soon as we go back to London, she will live there."

"Alone?" Moll frowned. "That's not so good."

'Not alone. Lord Fanshawe's natural daughter will live with her. The pretty blond girl, Miss James. She came and warned us about Letty, after all. It took some time for the two of them to make friends, but she seems well behaved enough now. She is almost seventeen, I understand. She will live with Letty and be her companion. After offending the de Veres, she has nowhere else to go."

"Then that seems fair enough. And now, ma'am," said Moll, fixing a keen eye on Jane. "Why did you all turn up without a by-your-leave today? Sir John usually sends better notice than an hour!"

Jane did not want to lie to Moll. Besides, she thought it a good idea for someone so observant and resourceful to be on the watch. "Part of the reason is the one given: Sir John wants Mrs. Martingale to see her future home. She is a very nice woman, and you will like her and her little girl very much."

Moll gave her a slow, understanding nod, and waited for the rest.

"The other reason," Jane admitted, "involves something the Colonel and his brother have been looking for since their mother's will was read." Briefly, Jane told Moll as much of the mystery of the box of ivory and ebony as she knew. Moll was entranced and somewhat scandalized.

"Break into their own father's coffin! I never heard the like. Well, suppose they find the box. What'll they do with it?"

"I'm not sure. Whatever papers are in it they will read, of course. If they are things that belong to the royal family, they will be returned, most likely. The Tavington family has always been very loyal to the King."

Moll frowned, thinking it over. "I hope they get proper thanks for it! Seems to me they could have gotten a little help, 'stead of orders and smirks! And what about this other feller, the one who sent the letters? Maybe they're one and the same!"

"Oh, I don't think so." Jane dismissed the idea, and then thought again, hoping it were not true. It would be just possible that the King's Friends might issue threats, disguised as the hated opposition. "I hope not." Actually, she could not decide which situation would be worse. "We just want to find the papers and be rid of them. And we will always be more careful about people we allow into the house in future. That horrible Mrs. Venable! Going about and searching through our rooms! And no one's seen her since Lady Cecily died."

Moll was impassive. "Most likely dead."

"Oh! Do you think so?"

"Don't you? No more use to them that hired her, and she might talk."

"Oh."

"But just look at these little men of your'n! Finest lads I ever did see! You, Little Will, you come on here so's I can give you a squeeze!"

-----

Tavington sat impatiently through dinner, wanting to be off and settle the business of this damned mysterious box of Mamma's. John was eager to go too, but equally eager that his Emily have a pleasant dinner. Tavington fidgeted and fumed, while John carved slices of perfectly done beef delicately thin for his lady. _Simpering and smirking like a schoolboy. I'm glad I've never made such an idiot of myself over a woman_. He looked away and caught his wife's eye, and remembered that he should be tending to her and the ladies at his end of the table as well. Smiling resignedly at his amused wife, he conscientiously served her some of the roast duck he knew she liked, and then made certain Letty and Harmonia had everything they wanted. A crackle of tension hung over the table. Everyone knew that after the meal the two men would depart immediately to meet Bordon at the church. Tavington spoke low to Jane. "When we leave, stay in the drawing room and keep the others with you."

"I want to go, too!" Jane declared to Tavington. "I can carry a lantern. I want to know everything!"

"Absolutely not!" he snapped back.

The two of them argued in whispers, while the rest of the table pretended to hear nothing. When the meal was over, Jane was forced to rise and invite the rest of the ladies to follow her. She made a last, murmured attempt. "What if we were followed?"

"All the more reason for you to be safe at home!"

"But there shall be only three of you!"

"Jane," he growled, "do you really want to be present when my father's coffin is opened?"

She winced. "I could keep watch outside, and make certain no one is sneaking up on you!"

"No!"

There are times and certain tones of voice that make clear to a wife or husband that their spouse will not be moved.. Clearly, William was not about to change his mind about this. Scowling ferociously at him, Jane swept away to the drawing room. Uneasily the women seated themselves, the crackling fire a vivid contrast to the chill out-of-doors. No one had the heart for music, and conversation languished. Harmonia had a few questions about the history of the house, and she and Penelope spoke softly together. Emily chatted a little with Caroline about the Berkeley Square house and the delay in furnishing the nursery to her taste. Distantly, the front door closed, and there was a general rustling sigh. After another deep breath, work baskets were taken out. Letty tried to apply herself to some embroidery, while Jane paced restlessly, now and then peering out the dark window in the direction of the church.

Letty tried to distract her. "Come sit by me. What do you think of this? Should I use a darker color?"

Jane glanced at the exquisite work briefly. "It's lovely as it is." She scowled again, thinking that women were always left behind until everything went to pieces, and then only later were welcomed to come and put the pieces together again. _Moll is right: the King and his friends ought to be grateful, after all the bother and anxiety this wretched business has put us through. I must know what was in the box. I shall make William's life a perfect hell if he tries to keep it from me!_

_-----_

A moonless night. The black sky was sprinkled with stars twinkling dimly through scudding clouds. Little gusts of wind whistled through the trees. Tavington trudged down the lane in the darkness, his coat snapping about him. John was humming to himself.

"Stop that," Tavington muttered.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your humming. I'm trying to listen."

"Sorry."

They walked on in silence, alert to the thousand stealthy noises of a sleeping forest. An owl hooted nearby, and Tavington started, remembering his Cherokee scouts. Wolf Claw had made that sound as a signal to his fellow warriors. It generally bode ill to his enemies. Tavington shook his head, laughing at his fears. Their dark lanterns were shuttered to keep from leaking light and betraying their presence. They would need them in the crypt. The church was up ahead, a blacker bulk in the darkness. Tavington quickened his step and was at the door, knocking softly three times, the signal they had agreed on amongst themselves.

The door opened. Bordon was silhouetted against the feeble light of a single lantern. The wind nearly blew the Tavington brothers through the doorway, and made their lanterns sputter and flicker. Bordon said nothing, but shut the door behind them, and locked it.

"I brought some tools that may prove useful," he told them quietly. Tavington nodded.

A chisel, a sledgehammer, a heavier pry bar than the ones they carried. Good, stout tools for the business at hand.. He acknowledged a faint flutter of dismay. He had never been afraid in battle, but this was something quite different. He admitted to himself that he did not want to see what Death had done to his father. John, too, looked faintly sick. It was gruesome and dreadful, and smacked of grave-robbing. Tavington tried to make himself believe that his father would not have minded. _It's true: he would think it a tremendous joke._ That idea, Tavington found, did not make him feel any better. Father's idea of a joke had often been cruel or grotesque. _He would laugh, because the joke is on us._

The church was oppressively dark. Without a moon, there was almost no illumination from outside. What little there was filtered dimly through the stained glass of the gothic windows, creating mere smudges of sombre light. Tavington felt uneasy. The church was full of shadows. Anything or anyone could be hidden in the pews or the chancel. He made to open his lantern a little more, but stopped himself. Any light they made would be visible to the outside. Once in the crypt, they could indulge themselves.

"Well, the sooner we begin, the sooner all will be over," John sighed.

They walked back into the chancel, and Bordon unlocked the door to the crypt. Tavington unshuttered his lantern, and hot yellow light illuminated the dusty stone steps. Bordon led the way down the long flight of narrow stone steps, holding his own lantern up. Black shadows swayed with the motion of the lanterns, crossing and weaving strange patterns on the cobwebbed walls. There was a scrabble of small claws as a rat ran over Sir John's foot.

"Bloody little villain!" He reached out to steady himself. "A man could break his neck on these steps!"

"It's only a rat, John."

"Little villain," John muttered to himself. "Disgusting creatures. They must run riot down here."

"Only at night." Bordon was perfectly calm. "We startled them."

The steps took them to the crypt itself, a dim and ghostly realm only partly illuminated by their lanterns. The fall wall, at the end of the narrow passage between the free-standing tombs was their goal. The three men edged their way past the sepulchers of long dead Tavingtons. In the middle of the crypt the crumbling stone tomb of Sir Richard Tavington presided, the first of the name to own Wargrave, back in the days when it was only a bare stone tower on Old Wargrave Hill. His effigy was serene and meditative, hands pressed together in prayer, a dog lying at his armored feet. His son, another Richard Tavington, lay a little beyond.

"Not many ladies have effigies," John remarked. "I just noticed that. I wonder why."

Bordon shrugged. "Not many ladies control the family fortune."

Tavington pushed a cobweb aside, and grimaced, brushing at his coat. He would be filthy before this night was over. Up ahead was the wall that held his parents and paternal grandparents, a spinster great-aunt or two, and his father's two brothers, who had died in childhood. John followed him in silence, and then grunted.

"Are you all right?"

"Just caught the corner of the fellow over there. Ouch."

"Be careful, for God's sake, John."

A sudden cold draught blew through the crypt, and the ragged drapery of cobwebs stirred. Tavington shivered, a cold chill tickling the back of his neck. _Like someone walking on my grave…_

John touched his sleeve. "There they are."

"Right."

There they were, indeed. A rectangle of white marble indicated the final resting place of _Lady Cecily Anne Tavington, born May 10,1720, died January 29, 1782. _To the left was a similar marker, only dustier and more mellowed. _John Rupert Manners Tavington, Bart., born September 22, 1716, died October 25, 1765._ The tombs were set into the wall nearly four feet from the floor. Below them were Sir Jack's parents, Sir Richard Tavington and his lady, born Sarah St. Leger.

"Grandmamma Tavington was the sweetest old lady," John told Bordon, very fondly. "She always forgave Father, no matter what he did, and she gave us the jolliest presents!"

"I hardly remember her at all," Tavington shrugged. "I vaguely recall her letting me hold a pomander scented with apples and cloves. It smelled very nice."

"Your loss," John remarked gruffly. "A pity she didn't live longer. Our grandfather, of course, was gone before any of us were born."

Tavington spared the inscriptions of his grandparents a glance. He supposed it would have been nice to have known them. A kind grandmother would have been something of a buffer between parents and children when things were particularly acrimonious. At any rate, they were not here to mourn their grandparents, but to retrieve something from his father.

"It's going to be the very devil, pulling out the coffin and prying open the lead sheath."

Bordon ran his hand over the tomb of Sir Henry Tavington nearby. By the sixteenth century, either effigies had gone out of fashion or Sir Henry's family would not pay for one. The top of the tomb was flat. "This will do for a workplace. We shall withdraw your father's coffin, and set it here."

"Very well."

They set to work with chisels and hammer, knocking the fine marble out of the mounting into which it had been so carefully set.

Tavington gave it a hard blow, and chips crumbled away, trickling down to the floor.

Bordon observed, "It will certainly damage the stone."

"Can't be helped," Tavington said brusquely, grunting as he levered in the pry bar again. "We cannot stop now."

"I'll hire some masons from Colchester to repair it," John growled, "but get in there we must. Here, let me have a turn at it, old fellow," he urged his brother impatiently.

"I'm almost there," Tavington snapped, mightily irritated. Another blow, and a cracking of stone. The marker tottered, and began tumbling out toward them. "Here, catch the wretched thing!

John grunted at the weight, and leaned the inscribed marker carefully on its side against the wall. "Not irreparable," he noted, almost cheerfully. Then he looked, along with his brother and Bordon, into the dark opening beyond, and his smile faded. "This won't be easy."

It was not. Heavy as the coffin was, it was difficult to reach in, find the filthy handles, and get enough leverage to start it moving backwards from its secure stone shelf. The brothers had to stand facing each other, with each able to use only one arm at first. Tavington used his left, guessing that it was still stronger than John's right.

"On the count of three—again!"

"One—two—_three!"_ Bordon called. The brothers heaved together, and the massive coffin began to emerge. A foot—another heave—another foot.

"It's a little easier now," Tavington panted. "Again!"

The coffin was nearly out now. Bordon rushed to help, and the three men strained together, supporting the object the few feet necessary to the flat-topped tomb. The thin lead sheathing scraped over the marble with ugly squeal and a great streak of grey. The three men stood there, catching their breath, before taking the next, worse step. Tavington had glimpsed his mother's coffin in the opening, and forced his mind away from imagining his mother's ravaged body, now two months dead.

It was his father's remains that concerned him. He picked up a sharp chisel, and attacked the lead sealing the coffin tight. It peeled away readily, once the first breach was made. John joined in, taking care with the sharp edges. Bordon brought one of the lanterns over, holding it to help them see what they were about. It took a good quarter of an hour, before the coffin was ready to be opened. Tavington leaned back against the damp outer wall, gathering himself for this last ordeal.

John looked red-faced and miserable. Bordon was pink with effort, but his usual calm self. No—not quite himself. He was grimmer than usual. Tavington remembered that expression from America. It was invariable the sign that Bordon was displeased by something Tavington had done. Well, he certainly could not be happy about their current adventure. He was a clergyman now, and his bishop would hardly approve of his complicity tonight.

"Best to get it done," Tavington said quietly, and reached for a pry bar. It took some pushing, but he had it lodged, and pushed down. The wood squeaked and resisted. Bordon took another bar, and set to work at the other end.

"Loosen it a bit at all four corners first," he advised.

Reluctantly, John joined in, working his bar into the corner opposite Bordon's. Tavington suspected it was because that was at the foot of the coffin, and John was hoping to see as little of their father as possible. Tavington found this experience horrible, not because it was a corpse, but because it was his own father. In the war, he had had endless experience of the ugliness that time and decay and war and pitiless Nature could inflict on the dead. What he would see here would not be nearly as bad as those things he had witnessed a thousand times. Sir Jack had died in his own bed of natural causes, after all; he had not been eaten alive by wild pigs like the poor brave men he had seen in the aftermath of King's Mountain. Tavington fixed his mind on that thought, and moved to another corner, quickly prying the nails loose.

Very shortly the lid was free. Tavington took a deep breath, and he and Bordon lifted the coffin lid away. John flinched and looked away.

An indescribable, musty odour drifted up: rot and mould and the stale perfume of long-dead flowers scattered in the coffin. Tavington found himself looking at his father's legs, the white silk stockings stained and yellowed, hanging loosely from the shriveled flesh. His gaze traveled down to the feet. _No box. It just couldn't be that easy…_

John moaned as if against his will. Tavington looked past the dirty, once-priceless lace at bony wrist and crumbling throat. His father's face was still oddly recognizable. The grave bindings were loose, but the jaw had not dropped entirely into the gruesome gape of a bare skull. The eyes were vacant holes, blind to his son's presence; and the blackened lips were drawn back, baring yellowed teeth in a mocking grimace. The elegant powdered wig was rakishly askew, and crowned the whole display with vain absurdity. Tavington absently decided that when he wrote his will, he would say something about not being buried in a wig.

Next to the ridiculous wig, an elegant little box had fallen upside down, The corner was black and highly polished. The body of the box was creamy yellow ivory, the same colour as his father's exposed bone at wrist and temple. Tavington sighed deeply and reached for it.

"All of this for such a trifle," he remarked.

A clear voice from the top of the steps disagreed. "Hardly a trifle, Tavington. But all the same, hand it over."

* * *

**Next: The Battle of Wargrave Cross**

A "dark lantern" has a shutter or slide arrangement by which the light could be shut off at will.


	70. The Battle of Wargrave Cross

**Chapter 70: The Battle of Wargrave Cross **

"Hardly a trifle, Tavington. But all the same, hand it over."

"Torrenham!"

Tavington turned, boots scraping on rough stone. In the harsh lantern light, he saw that the man he had so thoroughly humiliated in a duel two months before was now come back to haunt him. Only this time, Torrenham had a pistol in each hand, and Tavington was armed only with a decorative ivory box. Torrenham was coming down the narrow steps, smiling unpleasantly.

"What the devil!" John shouted indignantly. He was about to say something else, but swallowed the words.

Behind Lord Torrenham were three— no, _four_ well armed men—one of them too well-dressed to be a mere hired thug. This gentleman was a tall, with a lean, scarred face. Tavington guessed from his alert expression that he someone who was not afraid of a fight. He vaguely recalled him as Torrenham's second at their duel—Catesby was the name, he thought. Of the henchman hanging back, two were short and shabby, and the third a great brute._ We should have brought someone like him along to move the coffin,_ Tavington thought with grim humour.

He knew they were in serious trouble, but however desperate and bloodthirsty Torrenham and Catesby might be, they were not professionals. "It's quite bad enough you're a trespasser, Torrenham," he sneered, "You ought not to add 'thief' to your titles."

The man's lips twitched, but he was silent. Catesby ignored Tavington. "Don't waste time. Let's just get the box, Torrenham, and then we'll be off."

One of the men was bewildered. "But we can't just leave 'em here! You said we was—"

Tavington was now truly alarmed. He fingered the box in his hands uneasily. "I shall regard this with more respect in future, since it appears you are prepared to kill for it."

"You really don't know?" Torrenham was astonished. "You don't know what you have? By God, you're _idiots. _The moment I heard the gossip, I knew what your mother had! I no longer wonder why you had to marry a scrawny Colonial for her money. I shall put the contents to rather better use."

Beside Torrenham, his friend Catesby seemed bored. "Why are we talking? Kill them and get it over with. Our friends want to see the documents tonight."

John burst out, "Are you that Harmodius fellow, Torrenham? What a lot of rot!"

"Quiet!" Catesby snapped, waving his pistol meaningfully. "Enough of this. The horses are waiting." Very carefully, he took aim at Bordon. "Going to lead us in prayer, parson?" he jeered.

There was a smacking thud, and the hireling at the top of the stairs screamed in pain, twisting on the stairs toward them, his face wild and startled. Tavington looked up to see what had happened.

Behind the man stood the schoolmaster, Oliver Strakes, a knobbed blackthorn walking stick gripped in both hands. He had smashed the man across the back with it, knocking him off balance. Another blow, and the man flew forwards, off the stairs and twelve feet down on stone. There a high shriek, cut off by a terrible crackle of bones.

The smallest of the remaining men wailed, "He's killed him, the dirty whoreson! He's gone and killed Jukes!"

Strakes was already swinging at the ratlike little whiner, who stumbled, knocking Catesby down the steps. Catesby dropped his pistol, which skittered down stone and was lost in the shadows. Tavington, always looking for an advantage, grinned savagely.

"At them!" he shouted. Quick as thought, he used the weapon at hand, and threw the ivory box in Torrenham's face. Surprised, Torrenham jerked back and fired his pistols into the ceiling.Two shots roared out, one a split-second after the other. The noise was deafening in the small stone space. Stone chips and plaster dust rained down. His hands free, Tavington snatched at a pry bar and rushed at the enemy. "Get Catesby's pistol!" he shouted at Bordon, with a nod to the tall man, who was scrabbling on his knees after his fall. Bordon instantly dropped his lantern and plunged into the fight. Shadows swung crazily about, shifting, distorting, disorienting.

Another shot roared out. The big man's aim was wide, and wood cracked behind Tavington. _Good God. He's hit Father's coffin,_ he realized, not looking behind him to see what had happened.. Strakes slammed the knob of his stick under the man's jaw. Beside Tavington, John grappled with Torrenham, cuffing him hard, slamming him back against the stone walls. The two men stumbled and went down.

A kick and a scream. Bordon had a boot in Catesby's face. The silent crypt had become a riot of confusion and violence.

Bordon's dropped lantern was knocked over and went out. Luckily there was nothing close at hand to burn. The only light was from the lantern sitting on the tomb by Sir Jack's opened coffin. Another gunshot, as Bordon fought Catesby for the pistol, and it discharged. Bordon's left arm was not much use in combat, but he made up for it with experience and craft. Without a firearm between them, Sir John and Torrenham's fight became a matter of fists and knees and anger. John was trying to use his greater size and weight to pin Torrenham, and the younger man was using every dirty trick to struggle free.

Tavington had made a rush past those two, the heavy iron bar in his hands. Strakes had been knocked back. Torrenham's hired brute was a huge man, with a dull, doughy face. A bruise was already purpling on his face from the head of the blackthorn cane, but he seemed unimpressed, and had pulled a long, crude-looking knife. Safely behind him was the remaining henchman, urging bigger men on to the fight, yapping like a cur.

"That's the way, Cludge! Rip him up!"

Tavington thrust with his pry bar as he ran up the steps and knocked the big man's arm aside. There was no time to stop, for the greatest threat was before him.

Only one unfired pistol remained. The rat-like little man had slithered to the top of the crypt steps. He looked frantically about, trying to decide which of the targets to fire upon. Tavington, thinking with the terrible clarity of battle, knew that the man had only the one shot, and then would be vulnerable. His dirty tricorn hat pointed this way and that, as the man wavered. Tavington and his pry bar were suddenly before him, and his eyes widened. His arm was up, and the pistol was aimed, point-blank, in Tavington's face. Tavington ducked quickly.

A shout from John, and he and Torrenham rocketed around the room, grabbing at each other's clothes. Torrenham was spun about and his arm knocked against the last lantern on the tomb. Instantly, the crypt was plunged into total blackness.

Yellow-white, sparks streaking like a shooting star, a gunblast flamed in the darkness. Tavington hesitated slightly, wondering if he had been shot. His ears rang painfully, and for a moment he was deaf. Then a cry on the steps nearest drew his attention. It had sounded like Strakes.

A squeal from above told him where the little man was.

"Cludge, let's go! Come on, mate! No good stopping here!"

"Staggle!" roared the big man, "Stick 'im!"

Fumbling in the darkness, Tavington tripped on the steps, and scraped his knuckles. Hissing in pain and annoyance, he groped his way up the steps. Anonymous bodies crashed into him from behind, as everyone tried to escape the crypt. A hard stick struck the wall with a sharp wooden crack. Tavington's hand brushed a moving leg, and he grabbed at it.

"Bastard!" growled a thick, coarse voice, trying to swat him away. Tavington knew it must be the big man, and was faintly surprised to hear human speech coming from someone who looked like a prize bull. Wary of knives, he yanked sharply toward himself, and pulled the man off balance.

Too far. A crushing weight fell on his right shoulder. Tavington grunted, and slide sideways, letting gravity do its work.

"Bloody hell!" John swore, close behind him. The big thug tumbled down the stairs like a boulder, slamming against the wall on one side, and then the all the way down. With two of their opponents out of the way, Tavington could see before him a rectangle of dark grey. The doorway was only slightly brighter than the rest of the surrounding. Tavington heard feet running away ahead of him, and knew it was the little man, running away. He might be going for help, or looking for a lantern, or looking for a hiding place where he could reload his pistol. Tavington only knew he must get out of this darkness himself.

He reached behind him. "John! Up here!"

"Will?"

The two of them clambered up the steps. John slipped on one and cursed fluently. A hand reached out, and Tavington was braced to fight.

"Sir John?"

"Strakes!"

The schoolmaster was on his knees. The little man must have literally run over him, escaping. Tavington helped him up. "Come on, we've got to have some light! Bordon, up here! Follow my voice!"

Torrenham was also desperately trying to escape. "Catesby! This way! Aaahh!" he screamed. "God! I'm _stabbed! _Catesby, help me!"

Tavington was through the door, panting. A wavering light by the open door at the back of the nave showed where their opponents had left their lanterns. "Quick, John! Get one of those lanterns, and look out for the little man—he must be loose somewhere!"

Strakes stumbled out and slouched against the pulpit, wincing and clutching at his shoulder.

"Are you wounded?"

"Yes—I don't think it is too bad, but it hurts like the very devil! Can we lock the villains in the crypt?"

"Not with Bordon still down there." He shouted, "Hurry, John!"

Feet were on the steps. Tavington readied himself. He could not strike until he saw who was there, fearing to hit Bordon. He could hear Catesby and Torrenham calling to each other. Torrenham seemed to be in a good deal of pain. There was no sound from Bordon.

Light bloomed in the church. John had unshaded the lanterns, and they shone out bravely. With one in each hand, he puffed back to them. Tavington hefted his pry bar, wishing he had worn his sword and pistols to the church. No matter. The pry bar was weapon enough, unless Torrenham or Catesby had found a pistol and had a chance to reload. Every second increased the chance of that.

They had seen the light. There was a rush from below, and Catesby was through the doorway, flying at Tavington. He, unfortunately, had thought to wear a sword, and Tavington parried it with his iron bar, sparks striking from metal against metal. Catesby renewed his attack and lunged.

Distantly, he heard John's bellow. "Strakes! Here--can you keep an eye on a lantern? I've got to help Will! There's a good fellow!"

"John! Get down there and find Bordon!" A horror had seized Tavington. He imagined his friend murdered down there in the dark, and all because Tavington had won the living for him. He backed away and Catesby lunged again. The doorway was clear. Tavington swung the bar, preventing Catesby from aiming a slash at John, who was back into the crypt in a moment.

-----

Staggle, feeling very small and overwhelmed by events, did not linger in the church. The gentlemen had told them this would be an easy job—just get rid of the men in the church cellar, and they could have whatever trifles were in dead men's pockets. All the gentlemen wanted was a fancy box and what was in it.

_Should have been easy! Should have been easy!_

Now his mates Cludge and Jukes were dead most likely, or worse than dead. A broken leg bone could be a toilsome slow way to go. Staggle huddled in the shrubbery, trying to reload his pistol in the chill night air, looking to see if the way was clear to the hidden place by the road where they had left his lordship's carriage. There was a house with lit windows not far away. _Parson's house,_ he remembered. Further up the lane was the big house where the squire lived—that big fellow, Sir John, who had bashed his lordship about. His lordship had told him to watch out for the squire's black-haired brother, though. He was the real killer, and quick about it. Quick or not, he would have been dead as mutton if that other bastard hadn't crept on them from behind. "Dirty sneakin' coward," he muttered, feeling very much the victim of injustice. Those rich pickings would have kept him in style all the spring, and summer too.

But there were the horses. Staggle felt more cheerful, thinking about them. If his lordship and the other gentleman were done for, Staggle would have a nice lot of horses to sell at Colchester Market. He'd keep that one he liked, and have three to sell. He could unharness them, ride one, and put the others on a lead. It wasn't too far to Chelmsford for the night. And there were some bits of things in the carriage worth his while. That was a comfort, sure enough. The old coachman might make a fuss, but Staggle could see to him dead easy.

There were still noises of fighting in the church. Staggle considered going back and seeing if a bullet from his pistol could put things right. Cautiously, he crept out of the brush and hurried to the door of the church, feeling horribly exposed.

The squire's brother was fighting Mr. Catesby, pry bar against sword, and it was clear how that was going to go. Mr. Catesby looked winded, and the squire's brother was grinning like a very demon, playing with him. He smashed away another feint, and Mr. Catesby's sword snapped, the blade spinning off into the altar. Staggle darted away. No. His employers were done brown. There was nothing for it but to save himself. He ran up the lane, not wanting to waste time going back the slow, safe way they had come. He knew he did not want that grinning, black-haired devil looking for _him._

The big house was all lit up like daylight. It was criminal, how the gentry could waste fine wax candles. He slipped out of the protection of the trees. There was a low wall at the back of the house. All Staggle had to do was stay low and follow it, and then get across the clear space to the woods on the other side, and go down the little hill to the stream and then beyond to the road. He had just started to make his way, crouched down, when there was a barking from the hall. The big door opened, and a voice called out, "What's out there, Rambler?"

More barking: a deep-voice baying. Staggle shuddered and sat on the ground, beginning to sweat in the cold. He should have known they would keep dogs. God help him! The dog was out now, and running, coming closer. Staggle gritted his teeth, and forced himself to get up and run.

"Here! Who are you, sneaking around in the dark?" a man shouted. "Ma'am! There's somebody out there back of the lawn!

The dog was running at him. Panicked, Staggle fired.

-----

Rambler had run to the rear door, pawing and whining. Young, waiting in a straight-backed chair by the door, wondered if he had smelled a rabbit. Surprisingly, Rambler began barking. He was a good dog, and not one to go making a noise in the house when there was no cause.

"What the matter with you, lad?" Young asked. "Come here and sit down by me!"

Rambler paid him no mind, and barked the more. Uneasily, Young thought about Sir John and the Colonel. They had gone out, just after dinner, and the ladies were worried. There was something afoot. He opened the door, wondering what Rambler might have sensed. Dogs could be clever beasts.

No sooner was the door open even a foot, then Rambler was out, baying at the darkness. Now rather alarmed, Young shouted, "What's out there, Rambler?

Rambler was running, flat out, over the brown winter grass toward the low wall. A shape was there, crouching low.

Young shouted a challenge, and in return, there was an answering gunshot. Young ducked back, shocked, and wished he had thought to carry the pistol Mrs. Tavington had given him months before.

The ladies had heard Rambler's barks, too. Jane paused in her pacing. They all listened as Young opened the door and let the dog out. They murmured questions and suppositions to each other, wondering what it could be.

The gunshot silenced the ladies' conversation. The drawing room was absolutely still for a long moment.

"Oh, my God!" Jane cried. "Something's happened! Something's wrong!" She ran out of the room, into the Great Hall. The stern plaster figures in the wall reliefs ignored her. Diana and Ceres were no help. Young was at the rear door, peering around the doorway. Out of sight, below the wall, a man screamed.

"Young!" she told him. "I am going out. After I am gone, lock all the doors, and look after the ladies in the drawing room—and the children. The children…" she repeated, not knowing what she should do. William must be in danger!

The other women were following her, in anxious conversation. Emily's theory was the most reassuring one.

"Perhaps the dog has spied a poacher in the woods…"

"I must go," Jane told them, not heeding their protests. "I must see if they need help!"

The servants were running to the door behind her, anxiously peering outside. Some, Jane knew, must be at the East Door, looking out that way. "Sam!" she called to the nearest footman. "Go to the servants' hall and see that everyone is safe. Lock up the door and don't let anyone in you do not know!"

The boy nodded and fled back through the house. Jane had only time to fling her cloak over her shoulders, when a heavy tread coming down the stairs made her look up.

"Now, ma'am," Moll said gravely, her musket in one hand, and Jane's pistol in another. "I've told you about going off half-cocked. You don't want to go running out in the middle of the night by yourself. Tom and I will walk on down there with you and see what's what. No need to hurry."

Tom said, "That we will, ma'am. Here, Mr. Dunner, lock the doors and see that the ladies are kept safe."

Dunner was close at hand, and was relieved that no one expected him to go out and face anonymous armed men in the dark. And it was certainly true that his place was in the house, protecting Lady Fanshawe. The wide-eyed maidservants whispered among themselves, and the ladies wrung their hands. Letty pleaded with Jane to stay safely with her, and Emily seemed grateful that Jane would go. Without remaining to argue, Jane and companions set out at a brisk walk down to the gate.

They could hear Rambler's growls and the man's agonized moans and curses before they saw either of them.

"Drop it, Rambler" Moll ordered, very sternly, and Rambler sheepishly released the chewed arm he had fast in his jaws. The man on the ground was bleeding badly, and no threat to anyone.

Jane stood over him, barking questions.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?"

"We'd better have him bandaged up, ma'am," Moll advised, stooping over the fallen man, and trying to make out the extent of his wounds. "You're hurt pretty bad, stranger. You oughtn't to creep up on honest folks' houses in the dark!"

"Oh, God!" the man whimpered. "that damned hound has killed me!"

Young shouted back at the house. "I need some men down here! Peter! Nick! Get this man to the Hall and see to him!"

Menservants were running to help them. Jane agreed that Moll was right.

"Yes," she said, "see to his hurts, but be careful. No—I'll keep his pistol. Make certain he has no other weapons on him!" She thought a little longer, watching them hustle the man to safety. "Good dog, Rambler," she praised. "He was clearly up to some mischief."

"Well, that's plain," Moll agreed. "But he might have some friends. Maybe you should get on back to the Hall, ma'am."

"No," Jane protested. "If he has friends, they might be lying in wait for the Colonel and Sir John! We'll go to the church." She nodded to herself. "Yes, we'll go to the church, and see that they are warned."

Young protested. "I can do that myself, Madam. The Colonel would not like you to be in danger."

"No, he wouldn't, but I'm going all the same. Come, Rambler, we're going for a walk."

Moll and her husband exchanged weary looks over Jane's head, and closed ranks around her. Rambler trotted ahead, delighted at the prospect of an outing.

-----

This was no gentleman's duel. Tavington was impatient to get past Catesby's blade and put paid to his opponent.

"Put down your sword and surrender, Catesby, or I'll be forced to kill you."

"Go to hell!"

They circled, each watching the other. Tavington forced down his impatience, wanting above all things to know what was happening in the crypt.

Catesby tried a feint. It was an opening Tavington had been on the watch for. The bar smashed sideways, at just the right angle, and Catesby blade was in two pieces. Tavington ducked back as flying metal whirled overhead. He smashed again, knocking the ruined sword from Catesby's hand. He shot forward, sweeping the bar low, and tripped Catesby neatly. The man fell on his face. Tavington stood over him, the end of the bar against the back of Catesby's head.

"I am going to crack your skull like a rotten egg, you pathetic amateur," he purred. This was very satisfying, this last moment before he dispatched an enemy. He enjoyed it a little too long.

"It's all right, old fellow!" shouted John, coming up the steps. "We've got them, the buggers! Bordon's all right. He wanted to make sure Torrenham hadn't any other weapons on him. Well! Catesby! You are a sight! Will won't let you up unless you give your word of honour that you won't try anything!"

Tavington gave a long, exasperated sigh. John was really too good to be his brother. "_Do_ you give your word?" he asked, hoping that Catesby would utter one word of defiance.

The answer was muffled and tense. "You have my word."

"Ha!" John laughed. "It's all right, then! Let him up, Will—let him up. Torrenham is badly hurt and he can help get him upstairs!"

Catesby rose warily, turning and looking Tavington in the eye. Tavington gazed back calmly, glad to see mortal fear there—hidden, but not so well hidden that Tavington could not recognize it. He smiled sweetly, and stood away, but kept his bar at the ready. He motioned to Catesby to precede him. "Go on."

Catesby paused, but then, seeing Torrenham lying in his blood on the crypt floor, hurried down the steps to his friend. "God! Torrenham! Here, let me bind up your wounds!" He tore off his own neckcloth. Bordon, out of Christian charity—and because it had, after all, been his own hand and his own boot knife that had stabbed the man-- loosened his own and gave it to Catesby. The leg was bleeding freely.

"I'll be lame for life," Torrenham groaned. "Bastards!"

"Forgive me for pointing this out," Bordon said mildly, "But it is _you_ who planned to murder _us. _Surely you understand that we feel we were under no obligation to fall in with your plans."

Tavington whispered to his friend, "A knife in your boot? I thought you had beaten your sword into a ploughshare, so to speak."

"A knife nearly made two of me, back in Carolina," Bordon murmured back calmly. "One doesn't forget that sort of thing. One ought never to take for granted that one is perfectly safe, even at home. Besides, knives are useful for all sorts of things."

Tavington made no reply, knowing that he deserved Bordon's rebuke. He had indeed imagined that nothing could touch him at Wargrave, which was foolish enough, considering the past few months. A lifetime's habits were hard to overcome. He would speak to his own bootmaker about a discreet sheath for a sharp knife, and never again neglect to carry a pocket pistol out of doors.

To the side of the staircase, one of the attackers was slumped half-sitting against the side of Sir Richard's tomb, his head split open when it had struck the pointed feet of the effigy. He was manifestly very dead. The big man was lying huddled ten feet from the foot of the stairs, not moving. Tavington prodded him with the toe of his boot, but there was no response. The crypt was a shambles. Tavington knew sourly that it would take hard labor to put it right. John saw it as well, and made his indignation known.

"I'll have you locked up and held for the Assizes," he declared. "Attempted murder—assault. I'll see that you don't escape trial! What the devil were you thinking--killing men in the dark!"

"I would have had everything." Torrenham said faintly, "Personal revenge--and political influence beyond belief."

"A sizeable fortune, too," Catesby muttered bitterly.

Torrenham smiled slightly, and then winced, " Don't dream of holding us for trial. I can only be tried by the House of Lords, and you'll soon see how little they esteem a country baronet! If you hold Catesby, I'll tell the world about how lured us here and slaughtered my servants! The whole matter of the documents in the box--and how you robbed your own father's grave for them--will be made public. You'll never hold me, and you'll never survive the scandal."

It was disturbingly true. No one would care a pin about the death of unknown thugs, but attempting to charge a peer of the realm and his friend of assault and theft when it was simply one gentleman's word against another's was an invitation to disaster."They have us, old fellow," John muttered to Tavington. "They may not be able to expose us, but neither can we expose them!"

"I think we should kill them," Tavington observed calmly. "I think we should just kill them now and bury them here in the crypt with their henchmen."

There was an awful pause.

John laughed uneasily. "You don't mean that, Will. Can't kill a man in cold blood. Not the thing!"

"They've threatened us and threatened our family. They would have shot _us_ down in cold blood."

John was aghast. Bordon, very gently, spoke softly into the dim crypt. "No, we cannot kill them. Tavington—it could never be kept secret, so there is a sound prudential reason to leave them alive. We do not know who else knows they came here." He caught Tavington's eye, looking to see if his words were being understood. "Not only reason is against it, but also the law—the King's law and God's law, too." Seeing that this was taking effect, he said quickly to Catesby, "How did you come here?"

Catesby, really thinking it possible that he would die if he stayed here any longer, answered hurriedly. "We came in Torrenham's carriage. We left it—with our _coachman_--in some trees on the London Road, and walked here, following the stream."

"You're well informed about the lay of the land," Tavington hissed.

"Perhaps your faithful servants aren't _quite_ so faithful," Catesby sneered.

Tavington considered this. How had Torrenham known they were at Wargrave? How did he even know that they had left London? Clearly someone in his household was in Torrenham's pay. Perhaps others had been. "Perhaps. There is another matter to settle."

Bordon looked up in alarm at Tavington's soft tones. He was still dangerous.

"There is the matter of my mother's murder. You still must answer for that, you puling coward." He stared down at Torrenham, studying his face.

Torrenham did not seem to understand him. He and Catesby exchanged uneasy, bewildered looks. Torrenham floundered, "What do you mean? Killed your mother? Are you mad?"

John was angry at his obtuseness. "You scoundrel! You set your creature, that woman Venable, to spy on us, and she murdered our mother in her bed!"

"I don't know what you're raving about. I don't know any woman named Venable. I fight my own battles, you bloated sot!"

"Not fighting very well, are you?" Tavington snarled, and gave his wounded leg a kick.

Torrenham screamed, and Catesby crouched, ready to fight. Bordon pulled Tavington away.

"If you didn't kill our mother, who did?" John asked furiously.

"Someone else who wanted the papers, I'd imagine," Catesby growled, putting himself protectively in front of his friend. "Who else do you know who really wanted them?"

John grimaced. Tavington was not satisfied. "Who is your informant in our household?"

There was no point in lying. "Your footman Peter Denny. He keeps us apprised of your movements and what conversations he can overhear."

Tavington scowled, planning his revenge. "You say that you did not kill our mother, yet you threatened our women!"

"They were just threats! I told Jukes to scare the ladies and tell them we knew where you lived! I have no idea what else the man did!" He frowned, and said solemnly, "I give you my word of honor that I had nothing to do with your mother's death. Murder a woman, indeed!"

"That's rather more in _your_ line, Tavington," Catesby jeered.

"Shut your face, or I'll kill you," Tavington replied, with the suppressed calm of a steam hammer.

"Catesby!" Bordon asked, anxious to have these men out of his friend's hands. "Do you also swear you were not party to Lady Cecily's death?"

"Yes! I swear it! What utter rubbish! Everyone knows she was deathly ill. If she was murdered, why didn't you tell anyone? Or was there someone you suspected?" he asked, eyes gleaming. "Someone whose power could not be called to account?"

"Don't provoke him, you fool!" Bordon hissed urgently. From the depths of his right coat pocket he produced a Bible. "Put your hand on the book and swear."

Catesby slapped his hand angrily on the Bible and declared loudly, "I, Roger Catesby, swear I was _not_ party to the death of Lady Cecily Tavington, and I further swear that I have _no_ idea who was culpable. Now, are you satisfied?"

"Not satisfied at all, but with no evidence—" John said helplessly. "We'll have to let them go. These dead fellows-- well, let's leave them here and deal with them in the morning. And our father—" he glanced involuntarily in the direction of the open coffin. "We can send a servant to fetch Torrenham's carriage."

Catesby, solicitous for his friend, helped him up the stairs slowly. Tavington glanced over the carnage. The dead men would keep until morning Tavington saw Strakes' blackthorn stick and retrieved it.

Strakes was still sitting by the pulpit, and smiled wryly when Tavington put the stick in his hand. "I thank you. I shall need it tonight more than usual. You are letting the gentlemen go? After what they did?"

John shrugged. "Catesby gave his word to fight no more, and Torrenham is hardly in any condition to make trouble. Bordon has his pistol, anyway." He whispered the rest of the story in Strakes' ear, as the men made their way down the center aisle of the church. Strakes nodded, and winced now and then with pain

"Damned lucky you came in when you did," John said.

"I saw the light in the church and wondered what was going on. Then I saw some men I did not know sneaking in. I thought it best to investigate."

"Damned lucky you did!" John repeated fervently.

Tavington set his pry bar by the church door, feeling it had served him well.

They stepped outside into the night air. Bordon closed the church door behind him. The earlier clouds had mostly blown away, leaving a sky full of stars. There were footsteps coming down the lane.

"Who is there?" Tavington challenged.

"William! Are you all right?"

To Tavington's amazement, there was Jane running toward him, followed by Rambler. Another shape had the unmistakable outline of the pregnant Moll, and the other was revealed to be Young.

Jane put her hands on his chest, looking up at him anxiously. "A man was creeping in the shrubbery by the lawn. He fired upon the house, but Rambler caught him."

"And you came out to look for me?" Tavington asked, horrified.

"Yes! " she replied stoutly. "Moll and Young and Rambler came with me."

"Is—the man alive?" Torrenham asked quietly.

Jane peered at the unknown speaker, and then recognized him by lantern light. "Yes," she answered coldly, not bothering with titles. "He is. What are these men doing here, William?"

"A hired henchman, who could give testimony," Bordon remarked. "That could be awkward for you, my lord, if you raised difficulties."

"These gentlemen," Tavington told Jane, "had a difference of opinion with us, but we won the debate, it seems. They will be leaving shortly. Our good Mr. Strakes clinched the arguments. Our guests will retrieve their carriage, and we shall go home."

Bordon said, "Stay! I should lock the church. It will not take a moment. What--"

The door crashed backwards, and the hulking, bloody form of Cludge exploded toward them, a huge knife in his hand. Bordon stumbled and was down. Tavington rushed the man, longing for his iron bar. Torrenham was trampled in Cludge's assault and screamed in pain. Catesby frantically tried to drag his friend out of harm's way. Strakes tried to confront the huge man, and was bowled over. Cludge lunged for the smallest figure in the starlight, and grabbed Jane.

It was so sudden that Jane had only time to utter a quick, high shriek—shrill as a starling, cut off as the man's hands groped for a better purchase, clutching her against his huge body. In one dirty paw he gripped a long knife, which he waved in front of him.

"Let me go or I'll rip her up! Get back!" bellowed the voice above her head, a heavy, unfamiliar voice, with an accent Jane could barely understand. Jane saw William's eyes widen with horror. Rambler growled and crouched to spring.

"You call off your dog or I'll kill her!"

Jane squeaked as the knife waved in front of her face. Young snatched at Rambler's collar and hauled him back with an effort.

Cludge shouted at Moll, "You! Woman! With the musket! You put that down or I'll spill her guts, I will!" Moll scowled and carefully set the musket on the ground.

"That's right!"

Jane was being dragged backwards, toward the blackness of the woods. Her heels caught on a root, and she lost a shoe. Jane looked back and saw everyone's eyes fixed on her. She fumbled in her pocket for his pistol. She could hardly move her right arm--

Sir John shouted, "Torrenham! Tell the brute to let her go, confound you!"

"Cludge!" Torrenham called. "Stop it!"

"Fuck off, your lordship! Couldn't be bothered to see if I were dead or alive! You stay back or I'll cut the wench's head off—I'll carve out her eyes—I'll—Aaargh!"

Jane had the pistol in her hand, and bent her elbow. The barrel was pressed against the underside of the unshaven jaw and the trigger was pulled. The roar and shock made her go limp. Quite suddenly, she was crushed convulsively against her stinking attacker, and then she was dropped. She fell to her knees, shaking, and heard horrible gurgling noises behind her.

"Stay down, ma'am!" Moll shouted. Jane threw herself flat on the ground as the musket blast roared over her. She lay there, unable to move, and heard the sound of body collapsing behind her.

"Jane!" It was William, boots on the dirt lane, sweeping her up, holding her fast. Jane felt she could not breathe.

"I shot him!"

"Yes! Well done, my dear!"

"I shot him! Is he—dead?"

"If he isn't, he soon will be," William told her, smiling. He was smiling! It seemed shocking and heartless, but William was William, always.

Moll was stalking up, hand to Jane's face, looking her over. "Not hurt are you? Good work, ma'am. Let's have a look at this feller." Moll was joined by Sir John and Bordon, and hesitantly by Catesby, peering at the dead man. Rambler trotted up, sniffing at the body. Jane glanced and flinched away. It was luckily too dark to see much, but she knew that the face was not right any more. The jaw was replaced by blood and shreds of flesh. Jane shuddered and hid her face on her husband's chest. She had shot a man. Perhaps not killed him—but he would certainly have died later. Jane felt a pang of misery and guilt. She had been so bold about her pistol. She had shot someone now, and she wished it had never happened. Bordon gave her a kind, understanding look, and she answered it with a sad smile.

"Well done, my dear Mrs. Tavington!" Sir John told her, patting her on the back. "Terrible business, but just what he deserved. Oh, here is your shoe, my dear! And you, Mrs. Young! You are a treasure, indeed. Catesby, I'll trouble you to help me lug the body to the church. We shall leave it there until tomorrow."

Tavington issued his own orders. "Young, there's a carriage in that copse off the London road. Is that right, Torrenham? Young, find that coachman and get him here right away! His master wishes to leave." The butler set off at a run, taking the short route past the Hall. Mrs. Young," Tavington said, addressing her formally in front of the others, to show his respect, "I would like you to return to the Hall and tell everyone that we are safe." Meaningfully, he added, "Say nothing about Lord Torrenham and his friend."

Moll gave the disarmed gentlemen a hard look, but nodded.

"If you would be so good, Mrs. Young," Bordon put in, "Stop at the vicarage first, and tell my wife that I shall be safely home very soon."

Moll smiled at them all, and gave them a bob. "That I will! Come on now, Rambler, let's go see Mrs. Bordon. I reckon the little 'uns are in bed, but when we get on home I'll give you a—" Her voice faded, as she murmured affectionately to the dog, padding along beside her.

It took some time for the carriage to arrive. The gory body of Cludge was manhandled into the church and the door locked on the death inside. Catesby put his coat over Torrenham, and the two men huddled dismally together on the church steps. Strakes himself sank wearily against a big oak tree near the churchyard.

Torrenham's voice, thin and strained, rose in the night air. "I still say you're idiots. You'll never be able to prosecute me. If you do, I'll raise the issue of the documents and what is contained in them. There's a fortune there, and even better—a chance to publicly discredit the rotten heart of the Crown." He hissed in pain, and Catesby cast him a worried look.

"I don't want to hear that sort of talk!" John protested.

"Too bad!" Catesby snorted, looking at them in contempt. "You'll sing a different tune when you read them. Or perhaps," he sneered, "it would be better if you do not. Go on living in your Fool's Paradise of Good King George. Be his faithful lapdogs, if it pleases you. Monarchy is dead—it just doesn't know it yet. I won't rest until the whole world knows."

"Oh, go to the devil!" Tavington snapped. "In America I hanged traitors like you—and worse!"

Catesby smirked. "And we all know what a success _that_ was!"

Tavington took a threatening step, but Jane caught him by the arm and shook her head. All the desire to fight was quite drained from her, as she imagined the chinless body in the church. Tavington turned his back on his enemies, waiting to be rid of them. He wrapped his arms around Jane, warming her. At last they heard the sound of pounding hooves, and Bordon waved a lantern.

The bewildered coachman reined in, and Young jumped down. He helped Catesby ease Torrenham into the carriage. Blood smeared the seats and door, shining wetly in the darkness.

"Go back up to the house, Young, and see about something to eat for us. There's a good fellow." Young nodded smartly and jogged away. Sir John turned to the men in the carriage. "As for you-- get off my property," he said grimly. "You! Coachman! The most direct route is back through the village. Don't stop until you're well away! Torrenham! Catesby! You'd do well to hide your faces for shame!"

"And stay out of our lives," Tavington added. "Whatever harm you might do to us, we can do to you tenfold. And just remember that you'd be hard put to have us at law either, without a treason trial for yourselves! I wouldn't trouble myself with _that,_ though. You may know where we live," he snarled, "but we know where you do as well—and _your mother and sisters!"_

"Don't!" Jane whispered. "Oh, don't!"

"No, don't, old fellow, _we're_ not the sort to threaten women," John declared. "You're a fool, Torrenham. I can't say I wish you'd die, but I'm not going to regret it if you do. And you, Catesby—I'd advise you to disappear."

Still full of rage, Tavington eyed him and added, "I'd _very_ much advise you to disappear. The army is always in need officers in the West Indies regiments, you know."

"As if I'd soil myself, fighting for 'King and Country,'" Catesby shot back. "I'll leave that to butchers like you. I know what you did in the Carolinas—"

Tavington shouted, and slapped the nearest horse. "Get them out of here before I kill the lot of you!"

The coachman instantly whipped up the horses, and the chaise and four was off with a rumble, moving quickly out of the sight, and then a little later, out of hearing. There was a collective sigh of relief.

"We should have killed them," Tavington grumbled.

"Impossible to keep secret, my dear Tavington," Bordon soothed him. "Sir John, as the local justice of the peace, can deal easily enough with the dead men and Mrs. Tavington's wretched prisoner. We have the papers, and Torrenham is unable to harm us."

"For now," Tavington conditioned. He considered the situation. It was unpleasant, knowing that there were living men who had planned to kill him. It was possible they might cross paths again someday. He shrugged. John and Bordon had prevented him from eliminating the threat tonight--but with any luck, Torrenham's wound would mortify and he would die...

"We should get the documents to Sir Edward Claypoole tomorrow," John said. "Why don't we ride to London and get rid of them?"

"Not before you know what it is them, I hope!" Jane remarked tartly. "It's the least you deserve! Oh, dear! Mr. Strakes! You are bleeding! Come, we must get him to the Hall!"

"I am quite all right, Mrs. Tavington," Strakes observed, sitting with his back to the big oak, half asleep. "I shall go home and have a rest—"

"Not until that wound is seen to," Bordon told him, very decidedly. "Come, my dear fellow. Here, Sir John, help me get him to his feet. Lean on me, Strakes."

Tavington and Jane were left behind, looking at each other.

"My dear Jane—" Tavington bit back the angry words on the tips of tongue. "I love you dearly, but you are the most reckless woman I ever knew."

Jane paused, ready to fight back, and found herself utterly disarmed by his words. She stopped and stared, her heart nearly bursting with joy.

"Really?"

"Yes, really! I never saw anything like you! You come charging in like a callow ensign—"

"No." She was looking up at him. Her eyes shone with the faint reflected light of the lantern in his hand. "You said you loved me dearly. Do you really?"

Sir John goggled, and then walked on, grinning. The smallest, most perfectly satisfied smile played over Bordon's lips.

Tavington looked down at Jane. She was completely unaware of the blood on her cheek and the carnage about her. _Women are all the same,_ he thought—and then thought again. _No—Jane is not like anyone else._ _Have I really never told her that I love her? Do I love her?"_

Her arms were about his neck, and her lips on his, warm and willing and everything a lover's should be.

_I suppose I do. Who would have imagined it?_

"Yes. Of course I do. How could you doubt it?"

"You never told me you loved me before."

"You've never told me you loved me at all! Do you?"

"Very much!"

"Well then, that's settled," Tavington said, kissing her temple as they walked. "Let's go home--and to bed!"

"I just wish I hadn't had to shoot that man," Jane whispered.

"Mrs. Tavington is certainly a fearless creature!" Strakes observed quietly to Sir John. "I had heard she fought highwaymen last year."

"Well—that's a long story…" John replied, and the three of them talked quietly on their way to the Hall. Tavington and Jane followed more slowly, their arms around each other. They reached the front of the house. Inside, vague shapes pressed against the windows of the Great Hall, trying to see who was approaching. John raised a shout.

"Hello the Hall! Come on out! It's quite safe!

The door opened nearly instantly, spilling light out on the paved walkway. John laughed as Emily sped to him and threw her arms around him. He gave her a hearty squeeze and a kiss, caring nothing for the witnesses.

"There, there, my dear," he assured her. "I'm quite all right. Some friends came along, and the villains are dispatched."

They were met like conquering heroes. _After all,_ Tavington considered, _we are._

* * *

**Next—The Hollow Crown  
**

_Now, more than ever--please review _


	71. The Hollow Crown

**Chapter 71: The Hollow Crown**

"Everything is quite all right," Tavington declared to the ladies and servants crowding together. "Some ruffians attempted to rob us, but we dealt with them. You have nothing to fear." The light and warmth of the Great Hall were welcome after their chilly adventures.

"Take care, my love," John told Emily as she clung to him, "I'm filthy. Let's go to the library. Mr. Strakes is wounded. Surprised the villains and saved our lives, by God! We'll need something for bandages. Come Bordon, perhaps you can help me see to Strakes, here."

Between them, they helped the schoolmaster to a comfortable chair in the library. Nemesis the cat sprang from a footstool and plunged under the sofa, peering out suspiciously at the crowd. The servants remained, peering in the door, until Jane set them away with a gesture. John filled a glass with his best brandy. "Here, my good friend. This will put heart in you." He rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them. "Glad of the fire myself," he muttered to Bordon.

"Oh, Mr. Strakes!" cried Penelope, very horrified, seeing the wet blood at the torn shoulder of his coat. "You are hurt! Come, Caro, we must have something put by in the linen that will do…" The two sisters hurried upstairs to find the linen press on the next floor.

"Jane!" Letty rushed to her and held her tight. "Are you all right?"

"Yes—perfectly. We had an adventure, but it is over, and we are safe. Here, dearest, come and sit down. All this excitement is not good for you. Harmonia, could you ring for tea? Mr. Bordon, do please sit and rest."

"Thank you, Mrs. Tavington, but is very pleasant to stand before your good fire here for the moment."

Tavington gave Letty his other arm and made both her and Jane sit quietly on the sofa. Jane objected, and felt she should be doing more. She wanted to be doing something—anything to keep her from thinking about shooting that man…

"I could help dress Mr. Strakes' wound—"

"And so you shall," Tavington assured her, "when the dressings are brought. You are cold. Surely you can sit long enough to warm yourself. Young!" he called. The butler reappeared after a moment, and Tavington told him, "Have Peter brought before me at once. I've a few words to say to him."

"Sir!"

Young vanished.

"What has Peter done, William?" Jane wondered.

"Betrayed us all. He was in the pay of those spying on us. Master Peter will be sorry he took their money when I'm finished with him!"

"All this for that box." Letty said mournfully. "I wish I'd never known anything about it."

"The box!" Tavington cried, horrified. "The papers! I forgot all about them! Now I shall have to go back to that wretched crypt and look for them."

He started to the door, but Bordon caught him by the arm and pulled him back, patting his coat pocket. "No need, Tavington. I was not idle when I was down in the crypt. The papers are quite safe."

"Thank God!"

Tavington sank on the sofa between Jane and Letty, and put his head in his hands. Caroline and Penelope were back, arms full of folded linen, faces full of concern.

"Here now, Strakes," Bordon said. "Let us see to your wound. Do you object to the presence of Mrs. Tavington? She has some experience in these matters."

Strakes was faintly embarrassed, but agreed. "I would most grateful, Madam."

Bordon said kindly, but firmly, "It would be best if you other ladies would withdraw…"

There was a little unhappiness at that. Jane gathered that Penelope would have liked to have helped, but she also knew that Penelope was disturbed even by talk of blood and wounds. It would not be helpful if she were to scream or faint. "When we are done dressing the wound, Mr. Strakes should have something to eat and he should certainly stay the night, at the very least. Could you see to it, Penelope?"

Glad of something to do for Mr. Strakes, Penelope looked relieved, and began issuing quick orders. Jane smiled herself, and the rest of the ladies returned to the drawing room to continue their wondering and conversation.

They helped Strakes out of his coat. Jane thought it would do him no good to raise his arms to remove the shirt, so she tore the left sleeve open instead. The wound was long but shallow, a ragged slash along the lean muscle at the top of the arm. Jane looked at it, thinking of everything Biddy had taught her, and cleaned the area carefully with some of John's brandy. Strakes remained stoic throughout, even when she poked about the edges, making certain that no foreign matter was lodged there.

While Jane worked, the cat crept out, and eyed Strakes for a moment before leaping gracefully onto his thigh. She purred as the schoolmaster stroked her with his free hand, and the purring seemed to sooth the man himself. The linen was torn in strips and bound around and around, and then a sling was improvised, to keep his arm immobile. His coat was put around his shoulders to keep him warmer.

While Jane worked, the men discussed the events of the night, and Sir John wondered especially about Torrenham's bitter words. "Thinks we'll feel like fools, does he? I wonder what he thought was in the box."

"There's no time like the present to find out," Tavington said lightly, sipping his own glass of brandy. "John, do you mind if Bordon and Strakes are here while we look at the contents?"

"Not at all. They've earned the right, I daresay!"

Bordon reached into his pocket and withdrew a packet of yellowed papers. They were an untidy bundle, some lengthy documents, others mere scraps. He handed them to Tavington, who thumped them down on a nearby table, and sat down to examine them. He gave Jane a raised eyebrow, and she shook her head.

"Oh, no! I am _not_ leaving! I want to know every word!"

"Very well." Tavington smoothed out the paper at the top of the bundle and was preparing to it, when there was a soft knock at the door.

"Come!" Tavington called, annoyed at the delay.

It was Young, looking grave. "I beg pardon, sir, but Peter is not in the house. I believe he has run away. His belongings are gone and I found an open window in the pantry."

"Sneaking little devil!" John exclaimed. "Look here, Young. You let it be known that if Peter shows his face he's to be locked up as an accomplice of those ruffians!"

"Peter!" Young replied, shocked. Then recovering his composure, he bowed, saying "Indeed I will, sir," and left the room, closing the door soundlessly.

"Good riddance!" John cried, thumping the arm of his chair.

"I disagree." Tavington felt cheated. "I would have given a great deal to give his treacherous hide a thrashing before the other servants."

"His treachery will carry its own punishments," Strakes remarked. "Who would employ such a wretched sneak?"

"True," Bordon agreed. "I daresay he will try to seek employment with Lord Torrenham, but it is one thing to employ a spy in other peoples' houses, and quite another to endure a potential traitor under one's own roof!"

"Enough of him," Tavington growled, and returned his attention to first document in the packet.

He blinked.

"What is it, Will, for God's sake?"

"It attests that His Majesty and Queen Charlotte were married July 15, 1765, the officiator being one Doctor Wilmot."

"The King's marriage certificate?" Jane asked. "Why would your mother have that?"

"That can't be right," Tavington muttered, frowning. "The Prince of Wales is twenty years old!"

A brief silence. Strakes thought aloud. "Yes. The Prince of Wales was born in 1762, if I recall aright. He will be of age in August of this year. It says the King and Queen were married in 1765? That cannot be true. They were married when the Queen arrived from Germany in 1761."

"What else is there, William?" Jane was bursting with curiosity.

Tavington unfolded the next document. "It is a will." It was indeed a will, a brief, puzzling document.

_Hampstead, 7 July 1765_

_Provided I depart this life, I commend my two sons and my daughter to the kind protection of their Royal Father, my Husband, His Majesty King George III, bequeathing whatever property I die possessed of to such dear offspring of my ill fate marriage. In case of the death of each of my children. I give and bequeath to Olive Wilmot, daughter of my best friend, Doctor Wilmot, whatever property I am entitled to or possessed of at the time of my death._

_[Signed Hannah Regina_

_Witness: J. Dunning_

_William Pitt_

_"Pitt_ signed this?" John peered over his brother's shoulder. "It must be his father, the old Earl of Chatham. I wonder if my friend Pitt knows about his father being mixed up in this strange business."

"Hannah _Regina_?" Bordon asked. "The woman—whoever she was—is claiming to be Queen of England!"

Tavington murmured. "Lucy reminded me—There was gossip, when the King was young, about a woman—how did she describe it? 'Not in society.'

"Lightfoot!" John shouted. "Hannah Lightfoot! I hadn't thought about it in years! Word was that the young King had a Quaker girl as mistress."

"Perhaps she was more," Strakes pointed out quietly. "Such marriages do happen."

"And perhaps the poor woman died shortly after making her will," Jane whispered. "The will is dated July seventh. The King and Queen are shown as having—married—on the fifteenth of that very month. A legal marriage, the second time. But what about her poor children?"

Tavington shook his head, and looked at the next paper. It was a stained scrap.

_This is to certify to all it may concern that I lawfully married George Prince of Wales to Hannah Lightfoot, April 17, 1759, and that two sons and a daughter are the issue of such marriage._

_J. Wilmot_

_Chatham_

_J. Dunning_

"Pitt's father again!" John exclaimed, after a moment. "I very much want to show him those documents. He would know if his father's signature is genuine!"

"If it is," Tavington observed, spreading the papers out before him. "Then the Prince of Wales is a bastard with no claim to the throne of England."

Bordon did some quick mental arithmetic. "The Duke of York, too. Presuming the first wife died—which would be the logical explanation of the King and Queen's second marriage—their first legitimate child would be the third son—Prince William the Duke of Clarence—and he just barely."

"This could cause a major constitutional crisis," John breathed. "The King a bigamist! The Prince of Wales disinherited! We could have a war over the succession. Good God. This is tremendous!"

"Yes." Strakes said calmly. "The sons of the King's marriage to Queen Hannah would take precedence over Prince William, as well."

"And all the Queen's relations would be grossly insulted," Bordon added. "So much for our continental alliances. And at such an awkward time, too."

Tavington leafed through the rest of the papers. The births of Hannah's Lightfoot's children were recorded: Her first son, George, born June 11, 1759—"Probably why he had the impulse to marry," Tavington remarked. Then there was the daughter, Mary, born July 20, 1760. Finally, the second son and third child, Frederick, was born on September 30, 1761. "Shortly after the Queen arrived from Germany."

"But where are the children?" Jane asked again. _"What has become of them?"_

Bordon put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "It is inconceivable to me that their father would not have cared for them. Most likely, he has put them in the care of respectable persons who are well able to support them as their own."

"But it isn't _fair!"_ Jane protested. "The eldest boy—this other George-- should be Prince of Wales in the place of that vain, smirking jackanapes!"

"Jane!" Tavington laughed sardonically. "Who is to say the other boy would not have grown up as wayward? For all his faults, the current Prince is only one we're likely to have, so we must make the best of him."

"But he has no right to inherit the throne! It's all a fraud!"

John grimaced. "It's the King's fraud, then. We've always been for the King—" he added, sounding uncertain.

"And the next King will have no hereditary right to reign," Strakes considered. "Will you still be a King's man then, Sir John?"

John sat down heavily. The leather chair beneath him sighed. "This is all very confusing. I'm going to have another brandy. Anyone else? Good Lord, I'm sorry, Mrs. Tavington. Let me pour you a sherry."

"No—I--"

"Here."

The sherry was sweet and warming, and Jane was grateful for it. She leaned over her husband again, as he went through the rest of the documents. There were bills for baby linen and for Hannah's household expenses. There was a reference to another royal marriage, contracted between the King's young uncle, the Duke of Cumberland, and one Olive Wilmot, the daughter of the clergyman who had married the King and Hannah Lightfoot.

The actual marriage record of the King and Hannah followed.

_April 17, 1759_

_This is to certify that the marriage of these parties [George, Prince of Wales to Hannah Lightfoot was duly solemnised this day, according to the rites and ceremonies of the Church of England, at their residence at Peckham, by myself._

_J. Wilmot_

The signatures of the parties followed, one large and scrawling, another small and demure

_George, Prince of Wales_

_Hannah Lightfoot_

And the signature of the witnesses, of course.

_____Witness to the marriage of these parties _

_William Pitt_

_Anne Wexham_

"Wexham!" Tavington exclaimed. "Lady Anne Wexham was a good friend of Mamma's, and a fellow Lady of the Bedchamber to the King's mother. She must have gossiped to Mamma, who stole these papers for—"

John snorted. "—for no good reason! Blackmail and extortion! I can't blame Father for thwarting her!"

"I suppose not," Tavington admitted. "She must have been furious."

"The documents disappeared," Bordon said, continuing the thread of the story, "and the parties involved must have thought their secret safe. And then Lady Cecily becomes ill and begins talking about them, rousing old scandals, and the possibility of political catastrophe, and a number of individuals sit up and take notice. Lord Torrenham's friends—be they radical Whig or French agents—would find the documents just the sort of thing to create chaos and damage the reputation of the Crown—now very vulnerable with the disaster in America—"

"And the King's party—equally eager to suppress any breath of such scandal," Strakes nodded. "Did you know you had such explosive information in your possession?"

"Not at all."

Strakes had finished his brandy, and Jane thought that something to eat would do them all good. Tavington put the documents in his pocket, not wanting them out of his sight.

"We should hand these over as soon as possible, I suppose."

John narrowed his eyes. "I want to show them to Pitt. The signatures, at least. I want to know if he recognizes his father's signature. To satisfy my own mind, I must know if they are genuine."

Bordon considered this. "Will it make any real difference?"

"Yes," John answered immediately, slightly tiddly from his third brandy. "One expects a gentleman to do right by the woman he marries—even if he marries foolishly. Can't just go and put one's wife aside because you've got your eye on a richer woman—even if she is a princess. 'Tisn't right. The children too. An honest man looks after his own flesh and blood."

Strakes followed the reasoning to the logical conclusion. "So you are saying the King is not an honest man—or a gentleman?"

John fidgeted, on the brink of an abyss. "Well—he's not the man I took him for. Not at all the man I took him for."

"He is still the King," Tavington said.

"I suppose so," John muttered. He did not seemed cheered by the notion.

"Enough politics!" Jane declared, impatient to get the men away from the brandy. "Let us join the rest of the party. Penelope has ordered us a cold supper. We shall all be the better for it!" She stood and this forced everyone else to rise. She took Tavington's arm decisively, staring at John until he started moving to the door. Bordon smiled and gave Strakes a hand.

"Oh, good!" cried Penelope, on the watch for them. "Let us go in to supper! Oh, Mr. Bordon, will you take Lady Fanshawe in to the dining room? Thank you. Mr. Strakes, are you quite well? Here, I shall walk with you and see you come to no harm!"

After the quiet meal, there were some quiet conversations. Strakes excused himself and went directly to the room prepared for him. Harmonia, to her disgust, was sent up to bed as well. Knowing they could trust their sisters and Emily implicitly, those ladies were given a brief summary concerning the contents of the ivory box. The four of them took the news very gravely, and agreed never to speak of it.

"It is very shocking, to be sure," Emily said. "I cannot see, however, that it would be a responsible thing to make such a scandal public."

"No, indeed," Caro agreed.

"I agree with Jane that the poor children have suffered most," Penelope declared. "It is a disgrace when anyone is deprived of a just inheritance."

"If this were to become known," Tavington warned her, "there is no guarantee that they would benefit. In fact, their lives might be in danger!"

Letty said nothing, but thought about the pomp and show of her presentation at Court. It, like so much on the surface of society, had been a sham and a trick. There had seemed to her nothing extraordinary about the plain German woman to whom she had made her obeisance. The Queen's children might be the children of any rich man in England: the heir spoiled and running to fat, the girls rather pretty in a bland way. Their royal blood conferred no special virtues upon them.

People went on about how handsome the Prince of Wales was, but Letty, seeing him with clear eyes, saw that he was called good-looking because he was a Prince and not positively deformed. Whatever the King's children became as they grew into manhood and womanhood, it would be a product of their parents' wealth and their own characters. And now! The Prince of Wales was a bastard, like Letty herself. She wondered if he knew. Very likely. Probably he did not care—for who would challenge him? For a moment, she wished that the whole business could be published—and bastardy and bigamy made known to all. What would the Prince of Wales be fit for, if he were not a Prince?

It was so arbitrary, so artificial--people calling themselves Kings and Queens and Princes, and pretending that they were in their position because they were the most fit for it. It was as arbitrary as some people calling themselves masters, and others slaves. To pretend that it was otherwise made nonsense of Letty's own life: first a slave, now a noblewoman. It was Luck, or Chance, or Fate, or what her mythology book called the Wheel of Fortune. _At least I know that the Prince of Wales is a charlatan, just like those quack doctors. _

Jane looked tired and strained, and Tavington took her upstairs very soon. _She's had a rough night, poor girl. _There she was, running after footpads and getting mauled by hired thugs and shooting them, and then going home and cleaning wounds and seeing everyone had enough at supper. She was a wonderful wife, altogether, and there was no one like her in the world.

"Do you need to see to the children?" he asked.

"Yes. They need some milk to keep them quiet through the night. I shall not be long."

"I'll go with you. I haven't seen the children since we arrived."

The nursery was dimly lit, a haven of peace and safety. The door leading to Fanny's room was closed. Ash was sound asleep, sprawled on his little bed. Tom was awake and in Rose's lap, fussing a little. William Francis was on the floor by Moll's chair. Seeing his mother appear, he immediately grinned and crawled over to her at amazing speed. Jane picked him up and gave his silky brown hair a kiss. The baby looked with interest at the low neckline of her gown, which made Tavington chuckle.

"Little glutton!"

"What a thing to say about your own son!" Jane whispered in mock rebuke. "And you, Moll dear—you ought to go home and get some rest! This has been a terrible evening for you, too!"

"I'm fine, ma'am. Don't you worry none about me. I told my Tom I thought I'd sleep here tonight, seeing as we have a full nursery. 'Sides, I don't feel like facing the stairs again, even to go down!"

"Oh, of course."

"Are you feeling all right?" Tavington asked with concern.

"I'm fine, Colonel, but the sooner these little mites are sleeping, the sooner Rose and I can put our heads down, too!"

Jane was soon settled with the babies. Tavington gave each of his sons a light touch. They were fine, healthy boys, bright-eyed and alert, already taking note of their world.

"You go on down to bed, William," Jane said softly to him. "I'll join you soon."

"You'd better, Madam!"

Doggery could not help quizzing him a little as he put away Tavington's clothes and gave him a clean shirt for the night. Tavington gave him the servants' version of the story: a trio of rascals trying to rob the church. He was more interested in a thorough wash. The water in the basin turned grey with the filth of the crypt. When he held Jane close, he did not want her to smell it on him.

He was dozing when she came in, candlestick in her hand. She vanished into her dressing room. Dreamily, Tavington heard her whispered conference with Pullen. He dozed again, and stirred when a cold little body climbed into bed and lay back against her pillows with an "Ooof!"

He rolled to his side and gathered her up to him. "Are you very tired?"

"Very. I am so happy to be in bed at last."

He stroked her gently, hand under the smooth linen shift. "So tired you must sleep immediately?"

She was silent, and then said, "Oh, William—I shot a man. I don't feel very—"

"You are my brave Jane!" he murmured fiercely. "What do you think would have happened had you _not_ shot him?"

"I imagine I might have been hurt or even killed," she admitted in a whisper.

"Exactly! You did right, and don't let yourself think otherwise. No one asked the fellow to come here and try to murder us, and you had a right—nay, a _duty_ to defend yourself. What would the children do without you?

She sighed. "There is that, of course."

He murmured lower, as his hand became insistent, "What would _I_ do without you?"

"Oh you!" she almost laughed, turning to him, and kissing his throat. "You'd find The Second Mrs. Tavington, soon enough! I can just picture her: tall, voluptuous, and fair, looking down her nose at my poor boys…"

"Never!" Tavington hushed her. "Never," he repeated, settling on top of her, heart to heart, and holding her fast. "You are the only Mrs. Tavington for me, my dearest Jane."

___-----_

There was much to be done the following morning. Tavington rose early and pounded on his brother's door until John staggered out, half-dressed and bleary-eyed. To their surprise, Strakes came downstairs to join them, and they gathered a party of menservants and went to meet Bordon at the vicarage.

The advantage of being the local squire was that John had little trouble dealing with the legal issues of the dead—robbers, they called them--in the church. The bodies were laid out in the church and quick burials arranged for them in a corner of the churchyard. A carpenter was charged with knocking together a pair of plain coffins. Bordon would read the service over the dead men, and all in all, they would be more decently interred than very likely the men themselves would ever have expected to be. The sexton and his two sons were set to grave-digging, while the gentleman descended once more into the crypt to see to the Tavingtons' father.

A bullet had gone completely through Sir Jack's coffin, splintering the wood a little as it exited.

"Wait," Tavington said. The ivory box, its lid wide open, was lying on its side, just visible behind Sir Richard's tomb. Tavington picked it up and brought it over to the coffin. "As it has been my father's keeping so long, I think it best we return it to him."

"I can't imagine that anyone else would want it," John muttered.

Tavington snapped the empty box shut and set it down by his father's feet. Together, the men hastily replaced the top of the coffin and hammered the lead sheathing back into place as well as they could. Sir Jack's coffin was lifted and eased back into its niche, and the chipped marble marker was wedged into position.

"I'll need to replace it," John decided, panting with exertion. "I'll have Somerville deal with it. He can write to a stone mason in Chelmsford or Colchester."

"The sexton will need to clean in here." Bordon examined the dark blood stains on Sir Richard's tomb and the floor of the crypt with distaste.

Tavington snorted. "It probably hasn't been done in a century. Perhaps it's high time."

Strakes was studying the various monuments and inscriptions, lifting his lantern to read the most worn. "These are very interesting," he remarked. "If one were composing a history of the family, this would be worth using as material."

"You're welcome to it, my dear fellow," John told him. "As for me, I can't get out of here quickly enough."

They emerged at last from the crypt, glad of the fresh sunshine glowing through the church windows, scattering rays of crimson and sapphire on the stone floor. The door was opened on a spring-like day, and Tavington breathed deeply of the mild air.

"A fair day for a ride to London," he declared with satisfaction. "Let's have a good breakfast, and be off."

"A very good breakfast," John agreed. "Bordon, will you join us?"

"Thank you, but no. I have much to do. Harriet and I will of course be dining with the ladies tonight."

"Strakes, then—what about you? Come on back with us to the Hall!" John urged.

"I do not wish to intrude—"

"Nonsense! The women aren't done pampering you! They'd have our ears if we didn't bring you back!"

Tavington was very much of his brother's opinion. "Do come, Strakes. Otherwise, we're hopelessly outnumbered!"

At breakfast, more of the night's adventures were canvassed, but the contents of the papers were not discussed. It was an ugly matter, and there were more pleasant subjects to think about. Jane asked Strakes to join them for dinner that night. "I shall ask Mr. Somerville, too," she told him. "And you and he shall be good company for Mr. Bordon."

"I accept your kind invitation with great pleasure," Strakes said gruffly, "but I do need to go on home for now. My cats must be fed."

"Oh!" cried Penelope. "Your poor cats! A servant could be sent—"

"Thank you, ma'am, but I prefer to see to them myself."

Caroline spoke up. "Perhaps Pen and I could walk the way with you, Mr. Strakes. We are so concerned about you, and we really need some exercise anyway. Would you object to our company?"

The schoolmaster looked a little harassed, but also faintly pleased at their concern. "Not at all."

Jane smiled to herself. "Let me take at look at your shoulder first and dress it afresh."

Tavington could see that Penelope was quite infatuated with Strakes. Much as they owed the man, a marriage could be an awkward thing. _If only the man were not utterly penniless!_

"I wonder sometimes, Strakes—learned and accomplished as you are, that you are not a clergyman. Surely then someone could have found a living for you—"

Strakes shook his head. "I could not be a clergyman. Forgive me if I sound recalcitrant, but with my own views on the Established Church and even on the nature of the Trinity, I could not in good conscience take orders."

"Oh," John blinked. "Are you—an ath—I mean, excuse me, excuse me—none of my business, of course—"

Strakes smiled rather sardonically. "No, I am not an atheist, but my views are heterodox enough that I would need to preach what I do not believe, and that would be very wrong."

"Of course!" Penelope said loyally. "Your principles do you honour, though I maintain my right to disagree with your _views_!"

"I always welcome a good debate," Strakes declared. "I am quite ready to defend myself against all comers."

"But—years ago—" Tavington said, pursuing his first thought, "You could have joined the Navy—"

"I am prone to sea-sickness."

"—or the Army—"

"I have no desire to kill anyone."

"And yet you did not hesitate to fight beside us."

"I have no desire to kill anyone, but I equally have no desire to see anyone else killed. And I certainly have no intention of letting anyone kill _me."_ Strakes took a deep, appreciative swallow of their excellent tea. "And before you bring up the law, let me say that I had not the money to pursue it."

"You could publish a scholarly work."

"Oh, yes!" Caroline agreed. "What a good idea!"

"I have indeed embarked upon one. For some years, I have been gathering material on the history of England during the occupation of the Romans. I work on it when my time permits, but I am so very engaged in my teaching—"

"Well, you're a very fine teacher, Strakes, but you ought to have more time to yourself!" John said.

There was general laughter, and Tavington kept his thought to himself. It would be a touchy business if Strakes offered for Penelope. Penelope's fortune was certainly enough to support them in comfort—she had the twelve thousand pounds that each of Sir Jack's daughters had had put in trust for them—but he was, after all, merely a country schoolmaster! Guiltily, he could see that others would look upon such a marriage as they had looked upon his own marriage to Jane. At least Tavington had had an honorable profession—and the rank and pay of Colonel. Strakes had the noble blood of a duke in his veins, but many would see it hopelessly diluted by his mother's marriage to a servant.

Strakes might not offer at all, being a proud man: too proud to be taken by a woman at fortune's alms. That might prevent an inconvenient marriage, but Penelope would be unhappy. She would be forty this year, and if she really wished to marry, this might be her last and best chance. Tavington gave the matter some thought: considering what they owed the man for risking his life last night, and what might please his sister.

But he had also to think of his wife. "Will you be all right today, Jane?" Tavington asked her. "John and I must go to London right away."

"Of course I shall," she answered with spirit. "We shall all be so occupied we shall not miss you a whit! I shall take Mrs. Martingale on a long walk about the gardens—and my sister and Harmonia too, if they are so inclined. We shall have many callers today, and we have great stories to tell. Harriet will no doubt bring Susan and Robin this afternoon, and it is pleasant enough that that the children can play outside. Will you be back tomorrow?"

"Yes—I think—yes." He replied. "I am sure of it."

"Then I shall invite all our neighbors to dinner for tomorrow night, and Mrs. Martingale can be introduced to them all."

"Indeed, I look forward to it," Emily smiled in assent. "I have heard nothing but good of them."

Very soon, Tavington gave Jane a farewell kiss, and the two brothers were mounted and riding away. Tavington had decided that they would go cross-country for much of the way, avoiding the roads for some miles—"just in case." With the sun and air and hints of green, all memories of the darkness and chill of the crypt were dissipated, and there was the long ride and the horse beneath him and for awhile, Tavington could ask nothing more of life.

___-----_

Harriet came early, which pleased Jane. Ash and Robin squealed at the sight of each other, and hugged tightly, jumping up and down like a pair of little monkeys. All the women smiled at the sight of such innocent friendship. The introductions of Fanny and Susan were more sedate and ladylike, but both little girls seemed very pleased with the other, and there were many fair word and curtsies, and mutual admiration of Princess Sally Augusta and of Mistress Mary Marmeduke, Susan's pretty doll. The sun continued to warm the very stones of Wargrave, and even the babies were brought out into the garden for their share of light and good air.

Sam was prevailed upon to bring down the little table and chairs from the nursery, and an outdoor tea party was arranged. The ladies walked or sat, the nurses hovered affectionately, and the children held high revel in the long-deserted gardens of Wargrave Hall.

"Sir John has ordered built a light phaeton for local travel," Jane remarked to Emily. "Has he told you of it?"

"Oh, yes! I confess I look forward to driving through the estate and the environs with very great pleasure—that is—once the—"

Jane laughed. "I know! That turn at the London Road simply must be repaired. Sir John has said he will see to it once the roads are drier."

They were indeed inundated with callers. The first arrivals were the kind and warm-hearted old Doctor Spottiswoode and his wife. Jane discovered that they had become very friendly with the Bordons. _As who could not be?_ she thought, wishing she could live within everyday reach of Harriet herself. Her friend has been very busy in the time of her absence, visiting the cottages, looking after the old and sick, caring for her own children, corresponding with little Deborah Porter, and making her own home ever more comfortable and beloved.

All the callers—even Harriet—showed great deference to Lady Fanshawe, somewhat awed to have a representative of the nobility among them. Her position and her mourning were respected, her beauty and gentle charm admired. Letty found the neighbors pleasant, unassuming people, and their company was not as overwhelming as the arch, effortfully witty denizens of London. She could be quiet and rest, and did not need to be on her guard against predators.

The Hindleys came. Their daughter, Christabel, was with them, to Jane's surprise and soon to Harmonia's delight.

"I told Mamma that I could not bear it at school any longer. I am seventeen, and I have been away long enough!" Christabel told Miss James very decidedly.

"I quite agree, Miss Hindley," Harmonia replied, making more room for her on the garden bench. "Seventeen is too old to remain in a school. One can always improve oneself, naturally, but that can be done perfectly well at home, without all the noise of young, immature schoolchildren."

Miss Hindley was struck with the wisdom of this observation, and soon they were not Miss Hindley and Miss James, but Christabel and Harmonia, and were gossiping as if they had known each other all their lives.

"Mamma is so disappointed," Christabel confided to her new friend. "She wanted me to set my cap at Sir John—"

"Eeww!" whispered Harmonia. "He's _old!_ He is very kind and nice and all that—but he must be over forty! How terrible for you!"

"And so he is to marry Mrs. Martingale. She is old too, so perhaps they are well matched—"

Mr. Blandings called briefly and was pleased that he and his wife were included in the general invitation to dinner the following day. Not long thereafter, Mr. and Mrs. Charteris arrived, along with their younger son, Lieutenant Christopher Charteris of the Royal Navy, home on leave. Jane thought him a pleasant young man of perhaps twenty. Letty was disposed to be pleased with him, too, since he reminded her of the kind young officers with whom they had traveled on their voyage to England.

Harmonia thought him handsome. Christabel whispered in her ear. "He is much improved since I saw him last. He was shorter than I, then, and such a complexion! He is very well now, however."

Everyone wanted to hear about the events of the night before. Sir John and the Colonel and dear Mr. Bordon attacked in a church by ruffians!

"And one of them survived, I am told," Mrs. Spottiswoode remarked to Mrs. Hindley.

"Yes, ma'am, that is true, "Jane put in. "One of the men fired upon the Hall and was caught by our faithful dog." She pointed to Rambler, happily gamboling with his young friends in the garden. "The man's arm was nearly bitten through, and he is sick with a high fever as we speak. In charity, we are keeping him at the Hall. It would be the man's death to sent him to gaol in Colchester—and he might well die anyway."

Jane spoke briefly, not wanting to dwell on the matter. Despite all William's efforts, she had slept fitfully, tormented by the picture of the jawless man. This morning, when her husband and his friends were dealing with matters at the church, she had had a look at the injured robber, Staggle. He had lost blood and become feverish in the night. The bites and wounds had been cleaned, but if they became angry—

She smiled at her visitors, and focused her attention on them. Moll, her belly already swelling with her pregnancy, was holding hands with the children as they danced in a ring, singing and shouting. Round and round they went, and the children tumbled to the ground, in a merry mockery of death.

___-----_

Tavington and John decided to go directly to see Pitt.

"The more I think about it, old fellow," John said, as they rode to London, "the more I want to get to the bottom of this matter. Those wretched papers have given me too much to think about. I don't want to give them to Claypoole until I know the right of it. Let's see Pitt today and then talk it over with Protheroe."

"I thought you wanted the papers disposed of as soon as possible."

John's jaw set stubbornly. "What? Like a good little 'lapdog,' just as Catesby described me? I'm no man's lapdog, Will. People have been playing with us—spying on us and making use of us. Not just Torrenham and his friends, either. We've been hard done by, one way or another. What about our mother?"

"We'll never know for certain if she was killed or not, probably."

"We bloody well know someone set a spy on us!" More quietly, he said, after another half-mile. "That wasn't right. If people had just spoken honestly to us, if they had just _trusted_ us—"

"It _is_ a state secret—"

"Well—who should they trust but a Member of Parliament and an officer of the King's Army?" He grunted contemptuously. "I'll lay odds it's not a well-kept secret, in fact. My guess is that there are scores of people who know the truth of it."

"But only we have the proof."

"They've treated us badly." John's face subsided into mulishness. "They've treated us badly, and they owe us an apology at the very least."

Tavington actually laughed. "We are unlikely to get one!"

John scowled. "Then they can make it up to us some other way."

"We can stay with the Protheroes tonight," Tavington suggested. "There is no reason to tempt fate."

"Though I admit I'll be glad when we _are_ rid of the wretched papers," John muttered. He was still wrestling with the contents and with himself. The world had proved more complicated than he liked.

The road to London had never seemed longer. They were grateful that Pitt did not keep them waiting, but came out himself to usher them into his study, and see them seated before the fire.

"You have just come from the country? You must be very weary. How may I serve you?"

Pitt was John's friend, after all, so Tavington let his brother do the talking.

"Well, the thing is, Pitt—we've come across some documents that have us a bit puzzled. If I knew they were genuine or not, I'd feel easier in my mind as to what to do—"

"I'm not sure I understand."

"Well, that fact is, your father's signature appears on many of them, and we were wondering if you could have a look and see if you think they are forgeries."

"My father!"

"Yes," John shifted in his chair uneasily. "These are very important documents, if they really are genuine. They involve the highest in the land—"

"Perhaps I had better see them."

"It wouldn't do to talk about them later—"

"You have my word that I shall not divulge what you have shown me in confidence."

Without ceremony, Tavington laid out the papers before him, in much the same order as he had seen them himself. Pitt read through them in silence, after a first, quick intake of breath. He was a self-possessed young man, however, and when he was finished, he gave a long sigh, he turned to them.

"I have no doubt that my father's signatures are genuine. He must truly have witnessed these events."

"But he never told you anything of them?" Tavington asked.

"Never. I daresay he was not free to speak of it." He noticed John's dejection. "What is it, my dear fellow? You seem very downcast."

"I confess I am. Very disappointed in the King, you know. What are we to do, after all? The Prince of Wales is not really the heir, and the rightful heir is God-knows-where—"

Pitt shrugged. "The Prince of Wales is the Prince of Wales. What good would it do to expose him as a bastard?"

"But he won't be the real King!"

"Such things have happened in the past, Sir John. Usurpers and bastards have reigned over England before, and may well do so again, but England is still England."

Tavington tried to explain his brother. "We have always—our family, I mean—the Tavingtons have always supported the King. It is how we know ourselves. To know that the King is not the King—"

"The King is not the kingdom. Nay, he is hardly Britain, indeed, since the Hanoverian Succession and the departure of the Stuarts." Pitt saw their doleful faces. "I do not make light of your disillusionment, but I say that the King may reign over this kingdom, but he is not the kingdom itself. I love my country. I consider myself a patriot--"

Tavington snorted at that, hating the term, but Pitt only smiled.

"Yes, I am a patriot, and so are you, Sir John, and you, Colonel. We are each Patriots in our own way. We love and serve our country. No matter the stuff of the transitory kings who reign over us, they are but a symbol of the real nation we hold in our hearts. That does not die, as mortal kings do. Whoever wears the crown, we can still give our loyalty to our country, and serve it with all our strength."

John rubbed his eyes. Tavington, too, felt curiously moved. He, a Patriot? He had considered it the shopworn label of radicals and traitors, but the original meaning of the word was fitting enough. He had felt it honorable to serve King and Country: honorable to suffer hunger and thirst and agonizing wounds--honorable enough to die. Could he separate the "King" from "Country," and still serve loyally? He must find a way, it would seem.

They took their leave of Pitt, and then went on to see Lucy and Protheroe, and sat up very late discussing the whole business with them. In the end, they decided to send a note to Sir Edward Claypoole, telling him that the documents were available to them and that they wished to see him the following day. Another note was dispatched to Tregallon, telling him not to expect Tavington's manuscript before Monday next.

"A strange business," Protheroe mused. "Who knows how many secrets the old city has seen of the sort?"

"Well—I'm sorry in a way to know this one," John confessed. "It has changed my opinions on many matters, and that's a damned uncomfortable business at my time of life!"

"Then you must put it behind you," Lucy said gently. "And move on to other, better things. There is your wedding with Mrs. Martingale in only two months. How happy you shall be!"

"Yes!" John answered at once, a gleam in his eye. "Emily! When I think what she has suffered—yes—I shall see that her future is quite different!"

"And you, Tavington?" Protheroe asked. "Has this business changed you?"

"Yes—I suppose so," Tavington answered slowly. "I agree it is time to move on. There is my book, all but finished. When I bring Jane back from the country I daresay it will be ready for the printer."

"Two authors in the family! Mr. Tregallon came by, and showed me a copy of Caroline's novel. I am sure it will be a great success. And now you!"

"I think my little effort will go to print a great more easily than Caroline's great romance!" Tavington laughed, good humor restored.

* * *

___**Next: Tavington's Memoirs.**_

The documents and ideas on which this chapter is based come from the short biography _Hannah Regina: Britain's Quaker Queen,_ by Michael Kreps, with the dates somewhat rearranged to suit the purposes of my story. While most biographers of George III generally think the marriage to Hannah Lightfoot either did not happen or was not valid, Kreps makes an interesting argument that it did in fact take place, mainly by examining the newly-available documents from the trial in the 19th century during which the documents were adjudged forgeries and locked away for over a hundred years. The trial does seem to have been a sham—very much an attempt at hushing up a royal scandal. Whether the documents (or the marriage) were genuine or not, they are very interesting. The Prince of Wales appears to have thought the marriage took place, because he often taunted his parents about his (supposed) illegitimacy.

Thank you to my readers. I am within three chapters of the end of this story. I would very much appreciate it if you would review, and tell me how you liked the story.


	72. Tavington's Memoirs

**Chapter 72: Tavington's Memoirs**

The meeting with Sir Edward Claypoole proved a protracted one. After a good night's sleep, and time to consider their options and the various wrongs their family had suffered due to the King's indiscretion, the Tavington brothers were not inclined to simply hand over the documents. Their days of unquestioning service were past: now they were prepared for hard bargaining.

"It's not blackmail, John," Tavington told his brother firmly. "It's only just to receive reasonable rewards for loyal service."

John, to Tavington's surprise, was quite agreeable. Something had changed in John. He spoke often of Emily. It was not surprising that he would want a reward that would benefit her as well as himself. They talked quietly together and composed a short list of demands. Then they made the list rather longer, in order to have some room for compromise.

They met in the Queen's Palace, in a splendid parlor clearly meant to intimidate. Neither Tavington was in a mood to be intimidated. The splendor only recalled the wealth of the Crown and its nearly infinite resources—and that the rightful heir to all this was living somewhere in anonymity, probably forever. It roused feelings of indignation, rather than feelings of insignificance.

Sir Edward was disappointed in them, and said so. The King had been very generous to the Tavington family. "Twenty thousand pounds, gentlemen, is no trifle!"

The Tavingtons were unmoved. Had Sir Edward been more communicative, he might even now have had the documents in his hands. In the meantime, their families had been threatened—Mrs. Tavington had nearly been killed—and worst of all, perhaps their mother _had_ been killed.

"It was strange, Sir Edward," Tavington remarked carelessly. "We believed the Venable woman was an agent of the fellows who attacked us, but they seemed never to have heard of her!"

"Many people were interested in the documents, gentlemen," Sir Edward replied blandly. "The sooner you are rid of them, the safer you and your families will be!"

Sir John stared hard at him, and growled in a voice that startled his brother, it sounded so unlike him, "If any more come to threaten us, we'll serve them as we served the last!"

"I see." There was a long silence. Then Sir Edward smiled at them. "The King has always rewarded his faithful friends."

"We're very glad to hear that," Tavington informed him. How often had a prize dangled before him, only to be snatched away? This time would be different. "We think we've been remarkably faithful. We shall welcome our just rewards. You have our terms. It lies with you and with those for whom you act. We shall return to London in one week. Take a week to decide. Take two, if you like. Good day to you."

They returned to Wargrave, once again in a rather roundabout way, both heavily armed. It was nearly dark by the time they arrived home. They changed hurriedly for dinner, and spent a pleasant evening amongst family and friends.

"What happened in London?" Jane asked, late that night in the privacy of their bedchamber. "And don't try to hide things from me!" It would be so easy to be distracted. Her husband was padding about the room, entirely naked, winding his watch, looking back over his shoulder at her with a sly smile. His long legs and lean hips were quite perfect. His back and muscular buttocks were unscarred. He was altogether alluring, and clearly knew it.

Tavington, for his part, thought Jane very much deserved everything they might wring from Sir Edward and his master. Jane had borne so much and been very brave. She looked young and spirited, sitting up in bed with her keen eyes on him. He might have some rewards for her, himself.

Sliding into bed beside her, he plucked that silly nightcap from her head and held her close. "Many things happened in London. We went to see Pitt, and he confirmed that the signatures were his father's."

"Then it's all true?" she whispered into his shoulder.

"Very much so. If we had doubted it, Sir Edward's anxiety to obtain the documents would have told us everything. He pretends to be indifferent, but he clearly is not. And with the vote coming up in the Commons, the King's Friends are desperate to avoid anything that would damage the reputation of the Crown."

Jane nestled closer. William had a very nice chest. She liked the silky skin, the hard muscle underlaying it, and how the soft black hairs felt beneath her fingers. There was more black hair on his arms and on the strong wrists. She could breathe in his distinctive, warm, musky scent, the essential William-scent that in bed meant pleasure. He had said he loved her. It ought to satisfy her every dream, but she acknowledged she was only human, and would always want something more. "I hope the King is grateful to you for returning his papers and saving him from the consequences of his wicked foolishness! What did you ask for?"

"Never you mind," he laughed, rolling her gently onto her back and nuzzling her throat. "If I get what I asked, I want it to be a surprise!"

-----

The week at Wargrave did them all good. The weather continued pleasant, and much time was spent out of doors. Jane went riding with William—he on his big hunter, she on the pony Midnight. The pony was quick and sure-footed enough to take her down across the barrows, exploring all the mysterious monuments of ancient Wargrave. Sometimes they were alone. On other days they were accompanied by John and Bordon. On the next to last day, Emily came with them, on a lovely chestnut mare that John purchased from Joseph Charteris.

Staggle was recovered enough to travel. John did not want the events of the attack in the church to be canvassed in court, and so put the man on the post-wagon bound for the north, with a sharp injunction never to show his face in Essex again. Staggle's right arm was bandaged heavily and might never be of much use, but he was allowed to keep the money that had been found on his person.

"If you want more," John suggested, "apply to Lord Torrenham!"

Other things were accomplished. The revision of Tavington's book was completed to the last full stop, and he sighed with relief at the end of so much work.

"I hope Tregallon is pleased with it. I'm so tired of the business I don't want to look at it again!" he grumbled.

Jane's hand was sore from writing, but she was rather proud of what they had accomplished. "Well, we'll find out when we get back to London. Caroline is anxious to go. Her book has been delivered to the shops and she is wild to see it for herself."

"No doubt she'll drag us all to the booksellers so she can see it in the windows."

"And soon thereafter _you_ will drag us to the booksellers to see your own book there!"

He laughed. "No doubt!"

Despite his laughter, there were some concerns. The servants, the cottagers—everyone in the village of Wargrave Cross, in fact—had been told to keep a sharp lookout for strangers and ruffians. The people were on edge, feeling very put upon by the outside world. First there had been that bad business in January when a man attacked Mrs. Tavington—and now there had been grave robbers in the church, troubling the dead! People peered anxiously from their doors and windows at dusk. Barking dogs were heeded: a flutter in a chicken coop was instantly investigated. The ladies were encouraged not to go walking or visiting alone.

But within these constraints it was a pleasant time. The children played together happily, Jane and Harriet practiced duets, Letty read and embroidered. Emily and the Tavington sisters received callers, usually accompanied by Harmonia, whose first visit to the country was a time of great enjoyment.

"But of course it would be more enjoyable were I not in mourning," she confessed to her dear friend Christabel. "Lord Fanshawe had planned a ball for me to celebrate my coming-out, but of course all that ended when he died. Does anyone ever dance here in the country?"

"Oh, my, yes, my dear Harmonia! There are the assemblies in Chelmsford the first Saturday of every month. The whole of the country 'round comes—sometimes even the Earl himself. And then one can always hope for a private ball. Mrs. Tavington ended her dinner last Christmas with an impromptu little dance. It was so delightful. I danced every dance. Mrs. Spottiswoode played all the best country-dances, and everyone had a wonderful time. I hoped we would dance after dinner the other night, but I supposed she thought it wrong, now that nearly all of you are in mourning, one way or another."

"I suppose so. It is very hard, being in mourning."

Christabel was very kind and sympathetic about it. They soothed their mutual disappointment with a stroll across the lawn.

Jane also spent a great deal of time with Moll. While Mrs. Young was only five months gone with child, she was already growing great with it. Jane was concerned that climbing the stairs at the Hall and chasing after the children might be too much for her.

"Keeps me from running to fat, ma'am," Moll disagreed. "Don't want to lie about, having the vapors."

"Just don't overdo, my dear Moll, " Jane begged her. "What would I do if you fell ill?"

"Don't you worry none about me. I'll be fine. When I had Charlie, he popped out in no more than an hour or three. My Ma said it was a downright miracle."

"Well, it doesn't do to expect miracles all the time. I nearly gave Thomas a whack on the bottom today when I saw him kick you."

"It didn't hurt me none. He's just getting used to being up on his little pins. I never did see a child his age take to walking so fast. He's going to be a mighty strong man one of these days."

"I suppose so."

"'Sides, you need me, with all the young 'uns running wild. That Sally don't pay no mind to anyone but Miss Fanny—and maybe Susan, when she's here. Rose is right run off her feet."

"I know. In London, I have Jenny help her in the nursery, but she was left at the house."

"Jenny's a nice little lass. I think Rose's Ma was hoping you'd take her next girl on as well. I was cool to the idea, since I think young Damaris just wants a free ride to London!"

"You don't recommend her, then?"

"Not until she mends her ways."

"Are you still happy at Ironsides Cottage, Moll?"

A huge smile, beaming like the Sun. "That I am! 'Tis the finest, coziest, and best house in England. Not that your London house ain't fine and all," she added hastily "—but Ironsides is _mine—_and it's got everything a body could want."

"Well, I do miss you, but I'm glad you're content and comfortable here. But you are getting so large! Are you sure there's just one child there?"

"If there's more'n one," Moll said, quite undaunted, "we'll just have to knock together another cradle!"

-----

They were very busy, the Monday of their return to London. The Tavingtons waited to hear from Sir Edward, but decided to go about their business in the meanwhile. Tregallon called, bringing Caroline copies of her novel, and looked quickly through the manuscript of the memoirs.

"I shall have the galleys to you by Wednesday morning," he promised. "I want to have the book out as quickly as possible. With the great vote coming up in the Commons, there is great interest in your work."

Tavington saw no reason he would not succeed. The book was short, and would probably come to no more than a hundred pages when printed. Tregallon had done a great deal of work ahead of time. A printmaker had rendered the Reynolds portrait for a frontispiece and a map of South Carolina for the appendix. The type face and the binding were resolved upon. It should indeed go to print quickly, unless Tregallon found some new flaw, or there were outrageous errors in the galleys.

The house was even more agog at the kind reception given Caroline's novel. Caroline was still determined to remain anonymous, but within her close family, she was happy to revel in her success. Tavington wondered how long her anonymity could be preserved. The book was the main topic of conversation, that first night at dinner. Caroline and Penelope had run out to the nearest bookshop, the moment they arrived at home, to see the book displayed. Caroline was mortified when Penelope bought a copy, volubly praising it to the entire clientele of the shop.

Altogether, Tavington was glad that the excitement of publication gave Jane a distraction, for Letty was moving to her own house the following day. On their arrival in London, she had sent Dunner to the house on Half Moon Street. With him had gone all her servants but the Maupin sisters, and the house was to be prepared, provisions were to be purchased, the beds made, the dust covers removed. Despite all Jane's anxieties, and Tavington's uneasy warning, Letty could not see that she was in any particular danger any more. She wanted to be in her own house.

The barouche appeared at the door punctually at nine the next morning, and Letty was handed into it by her brother-in-law. Harmonia joined her, and then the maids. Jane smiled encouragingly, trying not to sob and ruin Letty's special day.

"You must come on Wednesday!" Letty cried as the carriage moved away. "Come and have tea! The house should be ready by then!" She sat back, smiling at Harmonia, who was very happy and excited herself. In only a few minutes, they had arrived. The footman escorted them into the house, and the coachman turned the equipage, preparing to take it back around the house to the mews.

The house was as beautiful as ever—perhaps even more beautiful than she had remembered. The Maupin sisters assessed it with cool approval, withholding their heartiest admiration until they had seen their own quarters. Letty, now so much stronger, walked from cellar to garret, seeing everything, noting what she wanted changed (which was very little), and reveling in those things that pleased her most. The servants had done their best to make the home inviting. The house was polished like a diamond, and glowed with the cheerful fires in the grates.

"Dunner," she said, "have Annie help Miss James unpack. Harmonia, I'm going to look at the upstairs first. Then I'll change and be in the morning room."

"I shall be down soon," Harmonia promised, hardly able to restrain herself from running to her lovely room.

Letty had not had the energy to inspect the servants' quarters upstairs on her last visit, and was very pleased with the arrangements there. Rising from a door in her dressing room was a small staircase leading up to a bright and well-furnished chamber that Dunner had set aside for Julie and Veronique. A convenient bell rope would enable Letty to ring for her personal maids when necessary. It was far more pleasant and private than having them sleep next door in the dressing room. The Frenchwomen themselves looked about, nodded, and were satisfied. In the dressing room, they removed Letty's heavy hat, and helped her change into the plainest black gown she owned. They were left to unpack Letty's things and then their own.

How large and empty the house seemed! Letty walked downstairs, feeling very odd. This was all hers. It had seemed a dream before, but it was really all hers to keep forever. She could live however she liked: have meals at whatever hour she chose, order for dinner whatever she pleased, go to bed when she was tired, stay up if she wished. She sat down suddenly on the stairs, overcome with a frightening sensation of unfettered freedom. No one could tell her what to do, ever again. On the other hand, she must make her own decisions. What a daunting prospect that was!

"I must make a schedule," she said aloud. She was already composing one in her mind as she walked down the wide, white steps and entered her morning room.

Oh! Her own morning room! It was so beautiful! Letty wandered aimlessly, admiring, soaking up the various prettinesses of this special place of her own, thinking what a wonderful house she had—what a wonderful place for her child to live. She must decide about the nursery, but not today. Her fingertips skimmed the blush-peach of the smooth, cool walls. She sat on a luxurious sofa, gazing at her very own fire. The picture above the chimneypiece was of the Three Graces. It must be—there were three young women, in scanty Classical dress. She could not remember their names, but she could find them in the Mythology. It was quite a nice picture. She looked around the room, and decided that the empty walls could use some filling. The rest of the house, too. What if she were to hire a painter?

"Next year," she told herself, "when I am out of mourning, I shall have my portrait painted." It was a daring thought—it was putting herself on the level of the Colonel. But why not? She was a noble lady. Sir Joshua wanted to paint her—he had said so himself. Very well. _Next March, I shall have my portrait painted, and I shall hang the portrait in the drawing room or the ballroom—or even in the entry hall. Why not? It is my house!_

There were other painters, too—the ones who made the little miniature portraits Letty thought were so pretty. It would be nice to have pictures of her sister and the Colonel. They were her only family, now. Harmonia would make a pretty picture, too—and to finish out the set—someday—there could be a picture of her little baby.

The fragile escritoire beckoned. She opened a drawer and found fine writing paper. Dunner had been at work here, for there were quills and fresh ink, sand and sealing wax and everything necessary. She took out a clean, creamy sheet of paper and stared at it. She dipped her pen into the inkwell and began to write.

_Eight o'clock-- Rise and Dress. I shall have a plain gown of black bombazine made for the morning. It is silly to dress up like a doll all the time._

_Half past eight—Breakfast. I shall not need longer to dress in the morning. I shall not be receiving guests when I rise, the way Lord Fanshawe did._

_Nine o'clock-- Meet with the housekeeper and cook. _

_Ten o'clock-- Write letters and practice music. I should buy a small instrument for the morning room, so I can keep the drawing room shut up until I have guests. It will save fuel. Besides, I like the morning room. _

_Eleven o'clock-- _She paused, pen poised over paper. _I can do whatever I like. In good weather I can go for a walk. I can visit the shops. I do not have to tell anyone where I am going, or when I shall return. _

_Noon –A lesson of some sort. I would like Mr. Bellini to come at least twice a week. More often, if he does not think it demanding of me. I shall sing if I like, and learn Italian and talk about Italy._

_One o'clock--A light meal on a tray. I like sandwiches, especially cucumber sandwiches with cream cheese. I never ate cream cheese before I came to England. It is very nice. Thinly sliced ham goes well with cream cheese too. And a dish of olives or some rare fruit like pineapple.  
_

_Two o'clock—Dress to go calling on the days that I go out. I shall only call on family and close friends while I am in mourning. Drive to the shops. NOTE—Make a list of the things I want._

_Three o'clock—Morning Calls or Visiting Shops. My sister is home on Thursday. I shall visit her then. I do not know if I want to be at home to visitors now. It will only encourage those silly men. _

_Four o'clock—A dish of tea. _

_Half past four—I can do whatever I like. I can read books or practice music or sew. I can lie down on a sofa and do nothing._

_Half past five—Dress for dinner. I do not need any new mourning gowns. I can wear the black silk damask at dinner. I can wear the Virgin's Tear every night at dinner because my sister said pearls are acceptable mourning jewelry._

_Six o'clock—Dine with Harmonia or family or friends. If there are no men present, I do not need to sit in the drawing room all night. We can talk or read or play music or cards or do anything that suits us._

_I shall go to bed when I like. Harmonia ought to go to bed by ten. _

_On Sunday I shall go to church. My sister and I are in the same parish, so we shall see each other there. That will be nice. Sundays will be very quiet. __My sister will invite me to dinner often. Harmonia must come with me. I should invite my sister here too. I should invite all the Tavingtons very soon, but not anyone else. _

_I must do something for Harmonia. I am her stepmother, after all. We can visit her school friends. Or she can visit them while I go the shops for an hour. She should have lessons too. I should ask her what she would like to study. She should study Music and a Foreign Language. Maybe we could both study drawing. I wonder what sorts of drawing tools I would need. __I should have Mr. Protheroe come every week to help me understand business, for he is my lawyer. He can bring Mrs. Protheroe too, because I like her. _

_THINGS TO PURCHASE_

_A small pianoforte for the morning room_

_Harmonia can play the harp a little. Should I get a harp too? They are very costly. If Harmonia says she will work at it I will, but otherwise not. I do not think I will try to learn any more on the harp. Learning to play the spinet is hard enough, and I will never be very good at it. I wish I could have started when I was seven the way my sister did. I wish my mother could see my house. _

Letty stopped writing a moment, a fully formed vision of her mother in her mind. She could imagine her sitting at the end of the sofa nearest the fire, serene and comfortable. Her fancy dressed Biddy in a soft, well-fitting gown of silver-grey silk broadcloth. A lace-trimmed cap of the finest gauze was on her head. Her skillful hands were embroidering a child's smock. The image was so strong that Letty could almost see the gentle smile on her mother's lips. Her eyes burned with unshed tears, and she began writing again.

_Nursery furniture when I choose my nursery. I should order it soon, for I want it to be very beautiful. My baby linen is ready, but I would like to make a few more things._

_Black bombazine for simple gowns. My servants need mourning wear too._

_Drawing tools for learning drawing._

_Books. I shall purchase my own copy of Miss Tavington's novel tomorrow. Then I would like to read a book about a famous woman or about Africa. I wonder if there is a book about Africa with coloured pictures._

_A Telescope. Or would it be useless because London skies are so smoky? I can write to Mr. Herschel and ask him to make me one. I can write to anyone I like._

_More black silk thread for my workbasket._

The cook wished to speak to her then, and distracted her from list-making. Letty had approved menus before, but had never actually ordered a meal conceived of by herself. She felt a little nervous, but tried to make the cook understand that when she and Miss James would be dining alone, she would like simple meals. The cook, trained in Lord Fanshawe's kitchens, and Letty, once lucky to dine off boiled greens and sidemeat, had very different ideas of what "simple" meant. Eventually, they met rather in the middle, and Letty had to be satisfied that such dinners would be of one course only, and perhaps only five or six dishes on the table—though always beginning with soup, and finishing with pudding. She had thought of having them served in the breakfast room, but the cook's expression was such that she dropped that idea hurriedly. She was still the Viscountess Fanshawe, and had a certain position to maintain. Besides, she did understand that what she did not eat constituted the servants' dinner, and she did not want them to think that she meant to stint their meals. She set about making a list of favorite dishes that she would encourage the cook to serve often.

They did not go out again that day, but they had one visitor. Bellini arrived, and was admitted (after some chaffering) by Dunner, who thought her ladyship too tired for guests. Letty decided she needed to make yet another list: a list of those people who must always be admitted: Bellini, her sister, the Colonel—all the Tavingtons and the Protheroes, she supposed, since they were very nice to her.

After that would be the list of those to be admitted at certain times and on certain days—and then the list of those to whom she would never be at home. The Prince of Wales, who had written her that horrid, silly letter, would be at the top of _that_ one. Her sister might have to be polite to him, because of the Colonel's profession, but Letty saw no reason why she herself needed to put up with him. She would have to present Harmonia at Court, next year, but that was the Queen's business, not the Prince's. She had no reason to have anyone in her own house that she did not like.

But Bellini was a true friend, and as such, would never be turned from her door.

"Oh, Mr. Bellini! I am so glad you have come!"

She was _very_ glad. Harmonia came down, happy to have a visitor, too; and Bellini was given a tour of the public rooms of the new house. Since he was there, and disengaged for the rest of the day, the drawing room was opened and there was a long and pleasant session of music-making and singing, of talking in English and Italian, and much admiration of Lord Fanshawe's portrait and the other fine pictures in the house. Letty mentioned her desire for more pictures.

"There is Sir Joshua, true," agreed Bellini. "But also the wonderful Angelica Kauffmann. She is a splendid artist and a charming woman. If it would please you, I shall ask her to call upon you."

"A lady painter?" Letty asked. "Oh, yes! I remember Lord Fanshawe mentioning her. I should like to know a lady painter very much. Perhaps she could recommend a good teacher of drawing, also. I should like to learn it."

That raised the whole question of lessons in general. Harmonia, when applied to, swallowed hard, and then agreed that she would practice faithfully if a harp were to be purchased. She had thought about it herself. Men always liked the harp best. Harmonia could sing, but she knew Lady Fanshawe would always overshadow her in that accomplishment. She could not play the spinet as well as Mrs. Tavington, who would be often present. Playing the harp well offered the best opportunity to excel in this household, and Harmonia wanted very much to distinguish herself at _something._

After Bellini had gone, Letty pursued her ideas further. "And would you like more drawing lessons? You draw very well already, Harmonia."

"I suppose—yes—I would like it. What I would really like is to learn to paint on ivory, Lady Fanshawe. It is more interesting to work in color. Of course, you must learn to draw with pencil when beginning, but I think I am ready to do more. Yes! I would like that. When I was at school the master was beginning to teach me how to take a likeness. I would like to do that again." She found herself growing more excited at the idea.

Letty was very pleased with her, and as a reward, said, "I know you miss your friends from school, Harmonia. Why don't you write a note, telling them that you will visit on Friday?"

-----

Emily had agreed to stay with the Tavingtons until the matter of the King's documents was settled. It should not be much longer, and the visit had been projected to last at least a month, anyway. The Tavington ladies visited the house John had taken in Berkeley Square, and saw what was being done with it. John had got it at a good price, since the last tenant had been a foreign diplomat who had held some entertainments there that had somewhat damaged the place. Freshly painted and plastered, it was a very attractive dwelling. John had allowed Emily to suit her fancy. Jane liked the house very much, especially the dining room. Emily had been very inventive with the decoration there. Instead of plain paint or silk covering the walls, they were adorned with designs of trailing vines and flowers. The room that John would use as his study also captured her imagination.

"Oh! An octagonal room! How interesting! I like the way the bookcases are set into the walls there."

She also admired the nursery. Instead of the usual plain arrangements, the walls here were painted as well, with strange trees and exotic birds and monkeys sporting on the branches. _It must have been quite expensive,_ Jane thought, but she knew that John would indulge Emily and Fanny. And it was very, very bright and pretty.

"What a darling little bed!" Penelope cried. "Oh, look, Caro, how charmingly it is painted. Fanny will be so delighted. I wish we had brought her!"

Emily smiled. "She will see it when the house is perfect, on the day that John and I are married and we come here to live."

Jane squeezed her hand. "That will be a happy day indeed, though we shall all be sorry you do not live with us!"

In the drawing room, Caroline noticed the empty wall above the chimneypiece. "Do you plan to buy some pictures, Emily?"

Emily blushed. "Oh, yes! Sir John has contracted—well, as soon as we are married, he wishes us to be painted together—all three of us!"

This news was greeted with enthusiasm. Jane thought what a sweet picture of family affection the three of them would make. John was a model stepfather, Jane thought. Little Fanny would find a true father in him.

She shoved aside the little green flicker of jealousy she felt sometimes when she thought about the marriage. As it stood now, her own William Francis would someday inherit Wargrave Hall and all its income. If however, Emily were to bear John a son, William Francis would be just another son of a younger son. It was so difficult to be honorable about it. She tried very hard to repress the hope that Emily and John would have no children—or at least no sons. Then she tried harder, and put the matter from her mind altogether. There were better, more unobjectionable things to think about.

Tavington's book first appeared in the bookshops three days before the great vote in the House of Commons. A slender volume, bound in green. The first printing sold out quickly, since many wanted to hear the confessions of a man with such a brutal reputation. Tavington's unflinching description of combat placated those readers—though the Whigs would have preferred more tales of British atrocities. Instead, Tavington gave the world the tale of the rebel Benjamin Martin: his sordid past as the mutilator of French and Indian prisoners; the mayhem he and his savage tomahawk committed on brave British soldiers; his comeuppance during a vicious attack on a group of women—a group which included Tavington's wife. Described in such a way, his fate at Tavington's hands seemed divine justice.

There were other dark chapters. The hideous aftermath of King's Mountain, where Ferguson and his American Volunteers had been massacred by rebel militia, made gruesome reading. And then there was the story of one of Rawdon's Negro spies, tortured and beheaded --and the head put on display in a swamp.

His style was judged sound, and the matter interesting. The lighter anecdotes amused the readers: the plight of the dispossessed troops stirred their compassion. The day the book came out, the Tavingtons hosted a dinner party to mark the event.

It was a particularly pleasant party. Tavington made a point of inviting Rawdon and Tarleton, his special comrades from the days in the Carolinas. St. Leger and Tazewell and his wife were to come, along with others of Tavington's military set. A few literary types would come too: his—and Caroline's-- publisher Tregallon, of course; Mrs. Montagu and a few more of her Bluestockings. Tavington agreed to invite John's friend Pitt, Whig or not. If the current government fell, Pitt was likely to be in the Cabinet, and Tavington's hopes for his soldiers would come to naught without sympathetic Ministers.

Letty begged to be excused, since she felt uneasy at the idea of so much talk about the Carolinas in the presence of Lord Rawdon and Banastre Tarleton, who had known her when she was neither a lady nor free. Harmonia moped, but Letty told her firmly that even if she had been out, Letty would not want to expose her to the flirting of a man like Tarleton, who lived in sin with another man's wife.

"He's charming and immoral, Harmonia," Letty declared. "That's a very dangerous combination. And he's a gamester and a spendthrift to boot."

"Yes!" Harmonia agreed. "I have seen him at the bookshop. I think he is very handsome in a boyish way. It is hard to believe some of the stories the Colonel tells of him."

"They are all paler than reality," Letty said repressively. She was the closest thing to a real guardian Harmonia had, and Letty did not intend her charge to be tricked and disgraced by a rapscallion like Banastre Tarleton. Harmonia's future fortune was not to enough to tempt him—or at least not enough for him to have honourable intentions. Letty knew too well from her days as a slave what it was like to have men single a girl out as prey.

At Jane's dinner, the absence of the lovely Lady Fanshawe was noted and deplored.

"I hope she does not intend to eschew all company while she is in mourning," Banastre Tarleton said. "That would be positively cruel!"

Tavington winced. He hoped Jane had not heard. Futile hope. Jane looked up quickly, eyes narrowed with anger.

"You know—" Jane began, "when men speak of the cruelty of women, it always makes me laugh—"

Tavington tried to catch her eye, desperately hoping she would not say something unforgivable. She saw him looking, and stopped. Then she smiled, very saucily. There was a ripple of rueful chuckles from the men at the table. Tavington sighed with relief, and smiled back at Jane.

_Perhaps neither of us is entirely tamed, but together we have rubbed a few of our roughest edges smooth._

Lord Rawdon had heard a bit of gossip.

"You remember that ass Torrenham who called you out in January?" he asked Tavington.

"I have some recollection of the incident," replied Tavington, to the amusement of the guests.

"Well, the fellow must have made himself odious elsewhere. I heard at Brook's that he's rusticating in the country after getting himself stabbed! The whole family—mothers, sisters, and all—have decamped with him to Shropshire, no doubt to tend his hurts. There's a man who should learn to pick his quarrels!"

"How right you are," John agreed. A few discreet glances were exchanged. Jane heartily hoped Lord Torrenham would stay in Shropshire until he dropped dead of old age—and that friend of his, too…

"Do you know if Mr. Catesby is traveling with him?" she asked. Rawdon seemed surprised that she knew the name, but Jane told him. "He was Lord Torrenham's second. I understood they were particular friends."

Ban Tarleton answered for him. "Catesby's gone to France, Mrs. Tavington. He had some business there."

"How nice for him."

The celebration was also—somewhat discreetly—in honor of Caroline's efforts. _The Stepdaughter_ had been selling well in the first ten days of its appearance, and had received yet more favorable reviews. Tavington thought Caroline was spending much too much time talking to Tregallon. He wished that Jane had not placed them together at dinner. The man was a reputable publisher, but Tavington did not like the extent of the friendship that was developing there. Penelope's interest in Strakes was more understandable: the man was a scholar and a gentleman; but Tavington was not sure that Tristan Tregallon--who it transpired was the son of the owner of a tin-mine in Cornwall—could actually be described as a _gentleman_ at all.

The talk, of course, was mostly of the war, of the current armistice, and what would become of the colonies if they were left to themselves. Of greatest moment was the expected no-confidence vote in the Commons. That was discussed very cautiously, comments prodding the issue gingerly, since there was a great diversity of political opinion seated about the table. Jane did not want conversation to descend to debate and then to argument.

"I don't suppose your book will change many votes," Pitt commented, "but perhaps it may cause a few men to think what many people have endured as a consequence of the war."

"That's all I can hope for, I suppose," Tavington agreed.

Tarleton laughed, remembering. "And you absolutely had to put in the bit about that silly Mrs. Mackey pulling me off my horse!"

"It was very amusing," John grinned.

"And it shows your kindness and forbearance towards the fair sex," Tazewell added, smiling himself. "Who hasn't had to deal with persistent country women, one way or another? It was a good story. The book is full of them," Tazewell said to Tavington. "A very fine effort. I only skimmed over it, you understand—just got the copy today, and my dear wife—" he nodded at his pretty lady—"managed to get it away from me and spent the afternoon reading."

"I have been enjoying it greatly," Mrs. Tazewell confirmed. "Such an intriguing mix of the comic events of life with the most tragic suffering. What you have endured, Mrs. Tavington! And all those poor faithful women with their husbands! One can only view it with respect."

"It's a face of war that is too little understood or considered," Mrs. Montagu spoke up. "I think it is very important to look at war, not simply as the movements of armed men in the service of political ideas, but also as a powerful force that involves a land and all its people. Even stories like that of one single countrywoman—" she turned to Tarleton "—put a human face on war."

"And Tavington did include your escapade imitating Willie Washington!" Rawdon pointed out.

Tarleton laughed out loud. "The summit of my theatrical career! Yes—I enjoyed reliving that, I confess. I think the whole Southern campaign deserves a book, of course."

"Then I leave it to you, Tarleton," Tavington said. "I didn't _see_ the whole Southern campaign."

"It would be quite a different book, of course. I have quite a few of my notes." He looked up, thinking it over. "Yes! You have quite inspired me, my good friend. I shall write my own history of events. And I shall say what I think! You are too soft on the blunders of our commanders."

Rawdon shook his head. "I'd advise you to be very careful of whose toes you tread upon, Ban. Generals have long memories when they are challenged in print."

"It would be inevitable," Tazewell agreed. "Touch a man's pride, and you could easily be embroiled in public controversy. It's best just to tell the tale and let the readers come to their own conclusions."

"We'll see," Tarleton answered, looking unconvinced. "In the meantime, readers will have been taught to be interested in the subject because of Will Tavington's adventures!"

"I felt sorry for the poor slaves, too," Penelope was saying to Mrs. Montagu. "To be in the middle of a quarrel not their own, but to be in constant danger, all the same. It is so unfair!"

Jane took the opportunity to urge Lord Rawdon to have more pudding. Hearing the English speak about slavery always made her very uncomfortable. She had owned slaves, and lived among slaves and slaveowners all her life until this past year. To see it as it appeared in others' eyes was unpleasantly enlightening. Not that all the English were opposed to the institution. To her dismay, a debate was brewing at her table, and it was not over the war.

"—and slavery leads to every sort of atrocity, like that massacre on the ship _Zong."_ Mrs. Montagu was agreeing with Penelope. Jane's heart sank. Sure enough, Banastre Tarleton, whose family had made a great deal of money in the slave trade, had heard the remark and was taking it up.

"Not a 'massacre,' my dear Mrs. Montagu," he disagreed civilly. "Slaves are property, after all, and not to be considered people. The captain was simply considering the safety of his ship and the rights of the shipowners. An unfortunate affair, but everything was perfectly legal."

Mrs. Montagu drew breath, and with forced calm said, "It is a sorry thing, when the murder by drowning of over a hundred souls is perfectly legal!"

Tavington had heard the exchange, and wondered how soon he could change the conversation. The "Zong Affair" was much in the papers at the moment. An overcrowded slave ship, and a ruthless captain. No doubt such things happened often enough.

"I don't understand," Emily Martingale asked timidly. "Why did Captain Collingwood throw the poor creatures into the sea? Why did he not allow them to die in peace on the deck, if they were sick and starving?"

"For the insurance," Pitt explained, attempting to put what he considered a vile rationale as objectively as possible. "As Tarleton says, the slaves were not considered people in law, but cargo. If they died on deck, the loss would be considered bad cargo management by the insurers, and they would not reimburse the shipowners. However, because they were put over the side, they could be deemed as lost cargo, and thus are covered by the policy."

"I see."

Jane felt it incumbent on her to say something. "It is hard to imagine something of the sort in Carolina. Even though slaves are considered property in law, they are very valuable property, and every attempt is made to take care of them. And they are not simply killed without trial."

"Yes," Rawdon added, trying to help her. "I have seen how loyal the slaves there are to masters who treat them well. Even on the other side! Think of Willie Washington's servant boy, who defended him with a pistol!"

"I shall never forget it!" Tarleton groaned. "Nearly blew my head off at the Cowpens."

"It seems to me," Tavington remarked, wanting to put paid to such a prickly topic, "that Collingwood was not just a heartless man, but a foolish, improvident one, too. The whole thing was badly managed, even from a strictly economic viewpoint. He greedily packed his ship with too many people, and had not thought ahead to provide for their care. I cannot blame the insurers for balking at paying for that kind of stupid cruelty."

Jane thought this a good time to leave the table. She smiled at the ladies, who for the most part seemed glad to withdraw. Near her she heard Mrs. Montagu mutter to Penelope. "At least that vile Collingwood died on the voyage, too. That at least was justice!"

Jane sighed, and began to speak very industriously of _The Stepdaughter_ and its success.

"Oh, yes!" agreed the distracted Mrs. Montagu. "A great success! Will you be at home this Thursday, Mrs. Tavington? Miss Fanny Burney would very much like to make your acquaintance."

"We shall all be at home, and would very much like to see her."

The ladies, at least, had no serious political differences to make conversation hazardous. Copies of both _The Stepdaughter_ and the memoirs were produced, and bits read aloud. Mrs. Tazewell quickly realized that Miss Tavington was the author of the novel that had recently so entertained her, and was made to understand that it was something of a secret.

"But how well you write!" the lady exclaimed. "Do you think you will write another novel? I am sure I would enjoy anything from your pen."

"You are very kind." Caroline smiled. "I confess that I would like to write more. I thought I was done with it, but now I find that I miss the occupation of writing in my room at night."

"Have you the idea for a new plot?' Jane asked.

"Well—I've had a few ideas. Perhaps I could write about a young woman who comes to England from the Colonies, and what a time she has dealing with the natives!"

A burst of laughter. Jane joined in. "Oh! You wouldn't!"

"Don't be too sure—I think it would make a wonderful story—a sort of combination of _Evelina_ and _The Expedition of Humphry Clinker_! I could call it '_A Natural History of the English People as seen by an American Lady.'"_

"Oh!" Penelope considered. "You would have to give it a girl's name, like _Belinda_ or _Clarissa_ or _Evelina_ or _Pamela!_ What is a good American girl's name, Jane?"

Jane shrugged. "Well, 'Jane' is best, I suppose—"

There was more laughter.

"—but why not call her _Carolina?_—or _Virginia _or_ Georgia—_if you don't want to be _too_ explicit."

"What a delightful idea," Mrs. Montagu agreed. "And so very timely. It would be an opportunity for so many observations about society and the oddities of people and their customs!"

"But she cannot be married," Caroline considered. "She must be a young maiden, come to live with relations in England after the death of her father." Her face brightened. "I shall speak to Mr. Tregallon about this!"

That particular gentleman came soon, and was quickly engrossed in conversation with Caroline. The rest of the gentlemen trailed in, rather merry from their wine. Tavington joined Jane, and frowned when he saw his sister and Tregallon in animated discussion.

"Perhaps you could ask the ladies for music, Jane," he said in an undertone. "Ask Caroline right away. I don't like to see her carrying on with Tregallon!"

"She has just had the idea for a new novel. Of course she is excited about it."

"All the same, it looks likes she's flirting with him. It won't do for her to be seen acting so."

"But I thought you _liked_ him!" Jane said in exasperation. "You like him, and I like him, and if Caroline likes him, what harm can it do?"

"I do like him, " Tavington said, rather defensively. "That does not mean I think him a proper match for Miss Tavington, the daughter of a baronet and the granddaughter of an earl! He's not even the eldest son. He used his family inheritance to come to London and set up in business as a bookbinder and printer. He's a widower, Jane, and he has three children!"

"Marry him?" Jane echoed in disbelief. "I don't think that is on her mind at all, unless you put it there. She wants to talk about writing with her publisher." Mischievously, she pointed out, "Caroline loves children. She loves books and literary evenings and good talk, and he is a pleasant man. If she likes him, the best thing to do is not to make a fuss, but to accept it all with good breeding. I cannot believe it will come to anything, really. Caroline is very happy here, and does not appear to be pining after Mr. Tregallon the way Penelope is over Mr. Strakes!"

There was music, and more talk, and more admiration for Tavington's memoirs.

And early the following day, they received a note from the palace, requiring their presence to discuss matters 'of mutual importance.'

* * *

**Next: Honours and Appointments**

**Notes:** I am thinking about baby names. It would be fun for me to read your suggestions. As some of you have surmised, if Letty's child is born a girl, she's considering Diana—which would go well with De Vere.

If Moll has a daughter, I think she'll name her after Jane, and the girl would go by 'Jenny.'

If it's a boy, I haven't decided. I don't think they'll name him after his father—and Charles is out, for obvious reasons. Any suggestions will be listened to.

Lucy is expecting a daughter in June. She is considering the name Eleanor, after Protheroe's mother. (And Ned and Nell would be cute nicknames, and in period, for her children)

Jane—beyond the scope of the story—will have at least one other child. They might name a boy John (if John has no sons). Richard is also a Tavington family name. A daughter, however, opens all sorts of possibilities. Jane might choose her name from the standard names of the period (you can consult Jane Austen's and Fanny Burney's works for ideas). The other sources for names would be literary (Shakespeare, predominantly) or Classical (historical or mythological) It's just possible that Jane would have a Medieval fit and come up with the name of some Merovingian queen, but that's not likely. The name will certainly not be a fashionable moniker from the 20th or 21st centuries. Almost certainly not Celtic, for while the Ossian poems were in vogue, the families involved were not of Celtic descent and would find such names very odd. She would also never consider giving a girl a boy's name.

Some of the names under consideration include Juliet, Aurora, Belinda, Isabel, Olivia, Rosalind, Cassandra, Helena, and Portia.


	73. Honours and Appointments

**Chapter 73: Honours and Appointments**

The metropolis shuddered with the political earthquake. Lord North was out of office. The vote of "no-confidence" on the twentieth of March was a resounding defeat for the King and his party. While as whole this was bad news for the Tavingtons, they took some guarded pleasure when they heard that William Pitt had been offered the post of Vice-Chancellor of Ireland. Pitt, however, refused it, telling John it was too subordinate, and that he would wait and hope for better things. He did not think Lord Rockingham, the new Prime Minister, would last long.

Emily returned home to prepare for her wedding, taking Fanny with her. The little girl was pink with all the kisses she received from her aunts-to-be. Ash wailed at her departure, and could not be consoled, even when Fanny kissed him and told him he was her favorite little boy. Jane sent an urgent request to Lucy, who arrived with Ned. Ash moped a little, but his friend was the best cure, and after a good romp as pirates and a gooseberry tartlet apiece, the world seemed a better place. Jane also took Ash with her on her next visit to Letty's—a brief visit, but a pleasant one. There was no harm in Ash being reminded that he had another sister who cared about him. Ash craned his head about, looking at the pretty rooms, and he stroked the velvet sofas with great pleasure. He admired the little rectangular pianoforte that Letty had purchased for the morning room, and was allowed to touch the keys, if he was careful.

But events were moving swiftly. Not a week had passed when Tavington and Jane found themselves again at Court, this time in the presence of the King.

Jane knew she would never make a courtier. The stultifying atmosphere and the insipid conversation set her teeth on edge. It was hard for her, so used to be doing something, to stand still so long and to move so slowly. All of it was worth it, however. Stupid talk, tiresome people, and the presence of the King, about whom Jane had decidedly disapproving views—all of this was nothing compared to the joy of seeing William receive the honour of knighthood.

Tavington's personal triumph was one to be savoured. To receive a knighthood marked an epoch in his life. He had carried the news home to Jane proudly, longing to see the joy lighting her little thin face.

He had not been disappointed. Jane tried so hard to pretend that she cared nothing for titles and public acclaim, but she could not hide her delight when those very things suddenly came her way.

"Sir William and Lady Tavington!" she burst out in excitement. Then she clapped her hands over her mouth, embarrassed at her outburst. He laughed at her embarrassment and had taken her in his arms and kissed her soundly.

She kissed him back, warm and passionate, so very happy for him. When she broke the kiss, she whispered, "But will it not be very confusing?"

"How do you mean?"

"_Two_ Lady Tavingtons? Emily and I will not know who is meant when we are in the same room."

"Ah, well—" he smiled, and kissed the top of her head. "That is not all my news. Emily Martingale will never become Lady Tavington."

"What!" Jane was horrified, imagining that the engagement was broken. Her husband only smirked in that impossibly superior way he had.

"I hardly think that either Mrs. Martingale nor her parents can object, since on her marriage she shall become Lady Wargrave instead." He saw her look of wonder, and assured her, "I am not dreaming, nor are you. John is to be elevated to the House of Lords. The King, apparently, has decided that he needs more loyal peers in the upper house. John is to be Baron Wargrave of Wargrave Cross."

"Lord Wargrave! How fine that sounds!"

Tavington gave a nod, and rested his cheek against her, still holding her close. "Some men might be vexed at being forced to leave the Commons, but John wanted Emily to be a peeress—and the Wargrave seat in the Commons is still his to control."

Jane scowled, thinking about the possibilities. "Does that mean you are going into Parliament?"

Tavington shuddered, and then laughed at loud. "Good God, no! I can't imagine the horror of sitting through endless debates and committees. John and I have a better candidate in view."

Thus it was that the two of them appeared before the throne, weighted down with Court dress and hair heavily powdered, and Jane saw William dubbed knight. Not wishing to seem a country bumpkin, she schooled her face into a mask of blasé composure, as if it were every day that her William was honoured by a king. It was not so difficult, since she smiled whenever no one was watching, and her cheeks were beginning to ache with such unaccustomed exercise. The whole family was there with them: even Lord Colchester, who was beaming with delight, happy to see 'dear Will" honoured, and looking forward to being present as his other nephew took his seat in the Lord's.

They drove home, and were met by an unusual number of servants at the door, all eager to greet them. There were bobs and bows and murmurs of "Sir William" and "my lady." Jane cheeks began hurting again.

A bath was the first thing, she decided. A bath to wash off the smells of crowded bodies, and rid herself of hairpowder and caked cosmetics. She had ordered one before they left that day. William thought it a good idea. "I hate this powder myself," he confessed. "I'll have Doggery brush what he can out of my hair. And then, my lady, I shall be joining you."

It still took some time for all the hot water to be brought upstairs and poured into Jane's bathtub. She had bought the tub in January, and was very proud of it. When in mourning, it was so gratifying to purchase something with strong color. The bath was white, with a band of dark green and another of gilt above it. It was a large one, and she was able, if she bent her legs, to put her head back in the water. She regarded it longingly, dressed only in a silky loose powdering gown, watching the cascades of steaming water as Pullen rhythmically and efficiently brushed through her long hair.

And then the pleasure of it, dropping the gown, stepping into the warm, lavender scented water, the little ripples eddying at her fingertips, the echoes as she dipped her head back and was completely underwater. She surged up again, revitalized. First, Pullen used fine Castile soap to scrub her scalp, and then applied the sweet, purifying rinse of chamomile and lemon. There was a final rinse of her perfume and a little olive oil. Pullen combed it through her hair, as Jane paddled her hands like a child in the tub.

"That will be all, Pullen," said Tavington, hearing the happy splashing. Pullen bobbed and vanished into the dressing room. Tavington looked after to be certain she was gone, and then shed his own banyan. He knelt by the tub, and ran the comb through Jane's wet locks.

She looked like a little girl, he thought—though a little girl with breasts. The wet hair, clinging to her head and neck, made her appear even smaller.

"I've had such a lovely bath," she smiled up at him.

"Is the water getting cold?"

"It's still quite nice, and there's another jug of hot water on the dressing table." She began lifting herself out, but Tavington gently pushed her back in.

"Not yet. I cannot be sure you are perfectly clean."

She huffed in mock indignation. "I am. I am absolutely spotless."

"That is for me to determine."

It took a little time. He made her lean forward, kneading the back of her neck with his strong hands until she hummed with the pleasure of it. Then he let her sit back against the tub and gently pushed her legs apart. "Have you washed here?" he inquired, his fingers probing.

She wriggled, and told him gravely, "I might have missed a spot. You should be certain."

And he made certain, with a bit of soap and a soft cloth and his hands, slipping into crevices and folds, the tip of his forefinger eliciting sighs and gasps.

"I don't think I could be cleaner," she murmured after a time, licking her lips, her voice grown husky.

"Then out you go. It is my turn."

He helped her towel her hair, and made a point of patting every inch of her. He hung the pretty powdering gown over her shoulders, and then got into the tub, with an "Ooof! The hot water, Jane."

She poured it carefully, wanting to warm him, not scald him. Tavington allowed her to wash his hair exactly as her own had been treated. "Powdering is a filthy custom," she declared, glad to clean the grayish residue away from William's long black hair. "Even a wig is better. It's hard to understand how it ever became the fashion."

"That smells wonderful," he said, enjoying the rinse of lemon and chamomile, "but for God's sake don't put that perfume on me."

"I love my perfume," she declared. It was especially compounded for her by their apothecary: her favorite lavender and lemon, now enhanced with notes of myrrh and ambergris.

"Yes," Tavington agreed, "It's very nice on _you._ Not on me."

"The olive oil is good for your hair."

"Then use a little of that by itself."

She poured a scant spoonful into the center of her palm and massaged it in. "I wish William Francis had hair like yours. It seems he will have dull brown hair like mine."

"He's a fine boy, and I like it that he also resembles you. So," he looked her over, "Lady Tavington! You are the first to bear the title since my grandmother. Of course, I am but a knight, and not a baronet, so it is not hereditary—"

"I don't care. I confess that I am just—enchanted—to be Lady Tavington! But how did it happen, Will, really?" She whispered. "The King must have been very grateful to have his papers returned—John made a peer, and you a knight—"

Tavington's smile slid away for a moment. "Yes," he said lightly. "The King was generous, but John and I felt we deserved our rewards."

"William!" Jane gasped. "Did you _haggle_ with the King? Did you demand—all these things in exchange?"

"We never met with the King directly. We told the King's representative that we expected our loyalty to be rewarded. And then we held fast." He saw that she was a little shocked. "Jane, I feel no regret or shame. We were put at risk in quite a ruthless and calculated way. It is one thing to hazard one's own life as a soldier, but to have my family put in peril—it was inexcusable. I would be a dolt to permit it without recompense. I tell you that I will never feel about the King again as I once did—not since I knew the truth of those papers and understood clearly that the King does not feel himself bound by the laws that bind all other Englishmen. He has the effrontery to hold that duty, and honor—and marriage, even—are not what the law says they are, but what he personally finds convenient. We shall keep our bargain and our silence, but I will not be his dupe. John and I gave Claypoole our terms and we held to them."

"John demanded the peerage." She moved to the end of the tub and began washing his feet. William loved having his feet attended to, but he much to say to her.

"Why should he not? He deserves it too! If Charles James Fox's father can buy himself one with the money he stole from public funds, then John, who suffered danger to himself and his betrothed, should receive equal recognition! I would have liked a baronetcy, but I was satisfied with the knighthood—to give you a title. For myself, well, there is something that might follow, but I shall say no more for the present."

"Oh, don't keep secrets!"

He grinned at her, and she splashed him in retaliation.

"I will just say that when you hear the news that the provincial regiments—namely my own men and Tarleton's British Legion—have been incorporated into the regulars, with all the increase in pay and rank that involves, you might guess that it was not simply an impulse of generosity on the King's part."

"Hm. But that it is how it will seem—because of your book, I mean."

"Yes. It makes it all so much more palatable. But that is not all. Bordon, I thought, would not object to money, and so, very discreetly, will receive a tidy sum, and the promise of future promotion in the Church. Strakes—well—I felt I owed him something as well, but it is up to the Crown either to persuade the current Duke of Barcaster to release the ten thousand pounds that his predecessor left his grandson in his will, or to make good the money from the Privy Purse."

"I am glad. He has been a good friend to us, and he has suffered great wrong."

"So has our own Moll, for that matter. It will be given out that her story moved the King and Queen to tears, and thus the pension of fifty pounds a year, which Moll should be hearing about in a day or two."

"Fifty pounds a year! She'll be over the moon! Oh, thank you, Will, for thinking of her!"

"Don't stop. And be sure to wash me there—" he indicated, catching her hand. "You know, this solemn occasion would be a delightful time to be depraved in the Fanshawe style."

"William!" she scolded, but there was gleam of excitement in her eye. Her little fingers tended him cleverly, and soon he was aching for release. Out of the tub he rose, water dripping, and there was a hasty, half-hearted attempt at drying. Jane's little dressing stool was pulled closer to the warming fire, and Jane found a cushion to kneel upon. Hesitantly, she looked up at him. "You must tell me if I hurt you."

"Yes, of course, Jane, but I don't see—Oh, God!" He caught at her as she tried to close her mouth, and whispered. "My darling Jane, you are not hurting me. It is exquisite."

It was very pleasurable and very intimate. The towel slipped from Jane's hair, and the gown from her shoulders. _If it were easier to be clean,_ Tavington thought—when he could think—_this would be far more popular._ Whores would not do this, preferred to be buggered rather than to taste their customers. He was unable to stop a low grateful, moaning, and Jane proved very inventive. It was over too soon, and Tavington clutched her close, his eyes rolling back blissfully.

"Let me tidy you," she whispered, rubbing her jaw.

"Was it very unpleasant for you?" he whispered back, utterly spent.

"No—only very strange. I gather you quite liked it. I just need a drink of water."

She got up unsteadily, stretching cramped muscles. He let her drink her fill, and then got up and wrapped her in his arms, her back to his front. "I think the bed would work best," he muttered, and before she could register more than a gasp, he was carrying her to the big four-poster.

"My towel!" she demanded. "I don't want the pillow to be wet."

He dutifully wrapped up her wet hair once more, and then considered the small body lying supine beside him. He had never even thought of pleasing a woman in this way...

In the end, it was easy enough. Jane lying back, her soft thin legs on his shoulder, his face nuzzling close to her warmth, his lips and tongue seeking—

_And it made her cry "Oh, God!" as well_, he thought with satisfaction.

-----

The matter of the seat in the House of Commons was discussed at length by the Tavington brothers. As Sir William was so very unwilling to replace Sir John—now Lord Wargrave—they decided that perhaps it was time that their brother-in-law, Edward Protheroe, should enter Parliament. At a private family dinner that very night, the subject was broached.

Lucy was ecstatic at the idea. Protheroe himself, typically, thought it over carefully, and then began to smile at the prospect.

"I think, Lucy, that it might be time to look for another house," he said slowly. "With your inheritances over the past few months, our income is much increased. It would be better for you not to have to travel so far to see your family. I was thinking of taking a house near them—there is one to let in St. George Street—"

"Oh, Ned!"

Caroline whispered to Jane, ""At last Lucy will be restored to her proper sphere in life. A Member of Parliament and his lady are always respected and welcome. They must present themselves at Court as soon as he takes the seat!"

Old Mr. Protheroe nearly burst with pride when he received the news. "I always knew Ned would do something splendid," he told anyone who would listen. "Always knew he was something special. My poor Nell and I never had but the one child, but better only one of Ned than a dozen others!"

-----

Not many days later, Tavington brought home more surprises. Late one afternoon, he arrived, glowing with fresh air and exercise and caught Jane by the hand. "My Lady Tavington, it's a fair day, and so, " he said, sweeping his handsomest bow, "I should be honoured to take you for a carriage ride."

Jane mind swept over all her duties and tasks, and then recklessly swept them away like so much chaff. "I should be delighted, Sir William! Perhaps I should change, though, if I am to go out."

"Yes, indeed—into your very best. I want everyone to be thoroughly impressed."

Jane went upstairs and called for Pullen, wondering who would see her behind the closed doors of their coach. However, it was enough that William would be looking at her, and so within the limits of mourning, she made herself as elegant as possible, down to an impressive hat with a plenitude of sable-coloured plumes drooping and nodding about her like so many gloomy ostriches. Her habit was of black moiré, cut very well, glittering with jet beading and trimmed with black lace. Jane loved the watered-silk look, and studied it happily, the strange patterns shifting as she moved. Pullen fastened her best pearls to her ears and around her throat. Lastly, Jane dabbed on a little perfume, and then a little more onto her handkerchief. She gave it a pleased sniff, and then pulled on her black kid gloves.

"Are you calling on Lady Fanshawe, Madam?" Pullen asked, wondering at such sudden splendor.

"Perhaps—I don't know—the Colonel—it is such a lovely day and the Colonel wanted to go driving." Impulsively, she kissed Pullen's pale cheek. "You are a jewel among maids, Pullen! I believe I shall never wear that peacock blue gown of mine again—would it please you to have it? It is in quite good condition."

"That I would!" Pullen half bobbed a curtsey, and half jumped for joy. "That is vastly handsome of you, my lady! I shall make it over so no one will know it! I shall keep it for church---"

Jane smiled, and patted her cheek, going down the steps cheerfully to meet William, not hearing what Pullen muttered to herself afterwards.

"---and one of these days I really shall visit the Magdalen, and Matron will be so proud of me!"

William was awaiting her, an inscrutable smirk on his handsome lips, and offered Jane his arm. Rivers opened the door for them, and then Jane saw the equipage.

"Oh! That's lovely!"

Open to the soft April air, a new phaeton stood waiting. Scoggins' smirk was a match for his master's. Two liveried footmen would accompany them. Jane paused, astonished and admiring. The low, open carriage was fresh and shining black, the seats covered with silver-grey plush velvet, the trimmings brightly polished. Two matched blacks were harnessed, their coats glossy with combing. The Tavington arms were painted on the little door.

"You approve, then?" Tavington asked her, already knowing her answer.

"Very much! What a lovely surprise! How pleasant it will be to ride in on fine days."

"Days like today," he said meaningly, taking her hand and assisting her in. "Let us waste no more time, my dear."

The seat was wonderfully comfortable. Jane arranged her skirts, settling back against the cushions.

"Drive on," Tavington commanded.

Scoggins clicked to the horses, the footmen leaped up behind, and they were off, headed west.

"Where are we going? To my sister's?" 

"Not today. Today is just for us. I thought you would enjoy the park, now that nearly everyone is in town for the Season. "Hyde Park, Scoggins," he told the coachman, leaning forward. "The South Carriage Drive." He sat back. "You have not yet seen Rotten Row in all its glory."

"Such a name!"

"Perhaps derived from '_route du roi—_the King's Road.' In his day, King William wanted a pleasant way to travel between St. James and Kensington Palaces. I did not want you to see it until the spring."

Jane knew that Rotten Row was the place where the _ton_ went to see and be seen. As they approached the park, she could see the fashionable set, dressed in their best, some riding a-horseback—even ladies—she noted, and some in open carriages. Spring had definitely arrived: with grass springing forth, the willows sprouting green feathers, and the maples crimson tassels. The young leaves softened sunlight and shadow as the Tavingtons entered the Drive.

"Are those lamps?" Jane asked

"Yes—oil lamps. It can be lit up quite well at night. But it is more pleasant to come at this hour—before dinner, before the chill of the evening."

Jane had never seen a finer thoroughfare than this: wide enough for three carriages abreast, and covered thickly with sand. "Does that brick wall go entirely around the park?"

"Yes—it looks well, I think. And it's partly to keep out the riff-raff. You'll notice that no hack carriages are permitted here."

"Only those rich enough to have their own equipages."

"Precisely." He sighed with content, hand on the head of his silver-topped cane. Jane thought he looked very impressive, though secretly she thought he was handsomer in the privacy of their bedchamber, his long hair loose and wearing fewer clothes. But in his black velvet mourning and hair elegantly dressed, he looked very much the part of an aristocratic scion of an ancient family, bred for courage and fine appearance, much like the horses and dogs who were the companions of those she saw about her.

"Oh, heavens!" Jane exclaimed, wishing she could look elsewhere.

"Trumfleet and Anne!" Tavington saw them too. "I did not know they were in town. Good day to you, Anne! How d'ye do, Trumfleet?"

"Charmed to see you," Lady Trumfleet mouthed at them, as if displeased by the taste of the words. "Papa is here, along with Bill and Kitty. I daresay you will see them soon enough."

There followed some meaningless civilities, and Jane found herself unable to escape the necessity of accepting a dinner invitation. Trumfleet and Tavington, admiring one another's horses, had a pleasanter conference, and the Trumfleets were soon moving away, to Jane's relief.

"Anne thought you looked very well," Tavington observed to Jane.

"She said nothing about it to me, and only sneered as usual," Jane replied. "How can you tell?"

"Over the years, I have learned to distinguish amongst her sneers. The sneer she directed at you meant, 'How vexing! I cannot find fault with her appearance!'"

Jane laughed. "I must take you at your word, but indeed I care nothing for her opinion. Yours is more to the matter!"

"I think you look splendid, my dear Jane. Mourning becomes you." He put his hand on her, and gave her a private smile that made her melt. The moment vanished, as he saw others he knew. "There are our cousins, Lady Melmerby and her eldest daughter, Lady Helena. We must bow to them."

Bows and greetings were exchanged, and Jane murmured to her husband, "I am surprised not to see the other daughters. I rather like them."

"Helena is twenty-two now, I believe, and the family is determined to marry her off this Season. They don't want any of the sisters distracting potential suitors."

"Poor girl. This place is like a market, you know. Heirs and heiresses for sale and barter."

"All sorts of things are bartered here," he agreed, seeing another woman he knew coming the other way.

The carriage alone caught Jane's attention. A carriage out of a fairy tale--a pale, exquisite French blue, with wheel spokes and rims painted a darker hue and picked out in white. The seats were covered in pearly satin. Two white horses pulled it, their heads adorned with matching blue plumes, their white-and –blue harness immaculate. In it, rode a lady alone—a lady of startling beauty, Jane thought. She was dressed in a shade of blue that exactly matched her extraordinary carriage. In her arms was a little pug dog with a white jeweled collar and a blue bow. Jane took in every detail of the lady's dress, her hat, her jewels, her air of perfect insouciance, and was tremendously impressed. How could anyone—well, anyone not in mourning—afford to have a carriage to match a _gown_?

"Who is she?" Jane breathed. "Do you know her?"

Tavington felt his cheeks grow just the tiniest bit warm. "That is Mrs. Robinson, Ban Tarleton's mistress."

She was coming closer. She had seen Tavington, and was smiling, radiantly ironic, showing perfect teeth.

"Oh." Jane said, regretting that she could not acknowledge the vision. She was a bad, vicious woman, but Jane felt a little sorry for her. The fairytale carriage now seemed simply silly. Someday Mrs. Robinson's looks would be gone, and certainly her money, too, if she spent it on such absurdities, and then what would the poor woman have left? "She is very lovely, but her carriage and dress must cost the earth!" She looked away, as the two carriages passed each other, and studiously admired the foliage in the other direction. Besides, Letty was just as beautiful in her own way. When _she_ was able to parade in Rotten Row, now _that_ would be worth seeing!

Tavington, seeing Jane look away, gave Mary Robinson the slightest inclination of his head. She smiled again, perfectly at ease, and then was out of sight. Another rider—an unattached gentleman—followed her on horseback to exchange a few quips.

Jane asked, "Who is that little man in the maroon carriage? And why does it have a big letter 'Q' on the door, instead of a proper coat of arms?"

"The Duke of Queensbury," Tavington answered. The 'little man' passed, giving them a scowl and a brusque nod. "I saw him at Lord Fanshawe's funeral. He is known to have been a member of the Hellfire Club. The 'Q' is simply an affectation."

"A ridiculous one," Jane declared, hearing the language the little duke was using to his coachman as he passed. "Does he always—"

"—swear like ten thousand troopers? Yes, pretty much all the time."

"Hmph! It must be very disagreeable for his wife."

"There is no Duchess of Queensbury, and I very much doubt there ever will be. The Duke is—not inclined to settle." He smiled. "I've heard him described as an Epicurean—without all the philosophic pretensions."

"So much the better for the pretty young heiresses I see about me!" Jane replied tartly. "Being a Duchess might come at too high a price."

"My dear Will!" a deep voice shouted. It was Lord Colchester on horseback, waving at them like a fish-seller, and bursting with pride. "Look! There are Will and ha!—no--there are Sir William and Lady Tavington! Come over here, I pray you! Yes, come, come!"

The Earl was mounted on a magnificent chestnut stallion, and was stopped beside an elegant barouche bearing the arms of the Mortimer family. In it sat Kitty, Lady Sattersby, visibly expectant. She was a beautiful as ever, Jane acknowledged grudgingly, though Jane's keen and unsympathetic eyes considered her a little podgy at waist and chin. _Don't be disagreeable_, she scolded herself, _it is the child._ _My figure was nothing to boast of at that stage either._ Nor did her condition prevent Kitty from following favorite pursuits, for Jane saw her exchange a languishing glance with a handsome young man behind the Earl's back.

Tavington saw it too, and stiffened slightly, giving the lady a hard stare when she looked their way and blushed.

_What the_ _devil was I thinking? She went on about our deathless romance, and now_ _has_ _already found a new flirtation while she waits to give birth to her husband's child! _

"Kitty received some vouchers for Almacks!" The Earl announced to Jane, rather excited. "I thought of the two of you at once! A ball always does one good, now and then in a way. Yes, Kitty, give two of them to—ha! Sir William and Lady Tavington! Are you free on the day?"

Jane glanced at her voucher briefly. _It means ordering a new gown, and I shall to cut my visit with Letty short—_

Then she saw the Earl's expectant expression, and said at once. "We have no prior engagements, my lord. How kind of you," she smiled politely at Lady Sattersby, "to think of us."

"Capital!" cried the Earl. "We shall all be together! I saw John—Lord Wargrave—today, and talked him into coming along. He wasn't happy about it, though. Had to insist."

"After the wedding, he will no doubt be more amenable," Tavington replied, with a smirk.

"He had better be! I was sorry not to be in town to meet his intended. A sweet, pretty creature, as I understand."

The unspoken question was obviously for Jane. "Mrs. Martingale is a delightful lady. We are all so happy that she is going to be part of our family."

"Yes," Tavington agreed. "A refined and gentle creature. John could not have chosen better. There is genuine mutual affection there." He glanced at Kitty with subtle disapproval. She tried to smile back at him.

"'Lady Wargrave!'" declared Lord Colchester, approving of the sound. "It only wants Sarah being here, but I can't pry her away from her place in the spring. Says she must be there for the plantings. Perhaps in a month or two…"

"I shall be happy to meet with Lady Sarah at any time," Jane assured him honestly. "I received a letter from her only a few weeks ago, full of her plans for some new specimens. Our correspondence is very pleasant."

"Glad to hear it! And you, my dear boy—Amherst told me the news! Couldn't be prouder of you!"

Jane looked puzzled, but Tavington only smiled, and said, "Thank you, Uncle."

They drove on, and Jane stared suspiciously at Tavington. "The other bit of news—the one you held back—"

"I have received promotion, Jane. The final word came today, and I was awaiting a propitious moment to tell you that I am now a General." He smirked. Words were never sweeter. "I am now a General," he repeated, and then squeezed Jane's hand.

"A General!" Jane stared. "I thought—well—you are Sir William now—"

He corrected her. "General Sir William and Lady Tavington!" he declared, with mock grandeur. "General of the Army and a knighthood! I tell you, Jane, it was so hard to keep it from you. I wanted to tell you when we were alone in bed. I have dreamed of this since I was a boy."

Jane tried to be happy, since it was so clear that _he_ was. "Are you sure this is what you want, William? I somehow thought that you would be retiring from the army—I mean, the war is nearly over, and you have written a book, and I just thought—"

"Good God, Jane! Retire? Never!" He saw that she was not entirely pleased, and he kissed her hand. "Jane. I am a soldier. I was a soldier when we met, and I will always be a soldier. I never felt the least ambition to be anything else—"

"You have already endured so much—"

"Jane! I am but thirty-seven years old! I have years of possibilities before me! This knighthood could be just the beginning!"

"But when the Commission for the relief of the Loyalists is formed—"

"Oh, yes. Yes, indeed—I would be happy to sit on such a Commission. It seems to me a duty. That has nothing to do with my career in the military. I am a soldier, and now I am a General." Joy filled him again. "A General!" He shrugged. "It matters not if the war in America is all but over. We have troops all over the world."

"William!" Jane said in horror. "I don't want you to leave! What if they want you to go back to America?--or to India or Africa? You would not leave, would you?"

"If I were offered a major command, Jane, I would have to consider it seriously. I grant you, after years in America, the idea of the more hot weather in India or Africa does not sound particularly appealing. However," he considered, "if our resistance in Gibraltar is successful, I could consider the post of Governor there. That is not so far. You and children could come with me. It would be like a holiday! Or I might be sent to Ireland." He smiled again at her wide eyes. "I think you would like Ireland, Jane. Only a short voyage, and people speak English—mostly. Of a sort. And the horses are first-rate."

"The shorter the voyage, the better," she said with asperity. "Better yet—no voyage at all. Perhaps Scotland, if you really must remain in uniform—"

"Perhaps—or Newcastle!" he laughed.

"--Or Bath!"

"--Or Mayfair!"

They returned home, flushed with spring air and their almost too interesting conversation. Tavington handed her out of the carriage, and as they entered the house, Rivers told Jane that she had some letters.

"One of them, my lady, is somewhat travel-stained."

Jane considered her various correspondents, wondering who it might be. It was not Harriet's turn to write, and she had just heard from Deborah Porter and Lady Sarah. Miss Gilpin? But it might also be—

She ran to the tray on the table of the hall, and snatched up the letter, crowing with delight as she recognized the handwriting.

"Cousin Mary! At last!"

Tavington rolled his eyes, but smiled, and followed her into the morning room, knowing that she would want to tell him all about it. He slouched comfortably on a sofa, reviewing the pleasures of the day, while Jane read.

_February 20, 1782_

_Charlestown_

_My dear Jane,_

_Thank you, my dear Jane, for relieving my anxiety about the little boys. I knew that if they survived the journey, they would be safe with you. It is such a comfort to know that they are in England, where nothing can possibly harm any of you, instead of in the hurly-burly of a town besieged. I hope they are good, dutiful boys and are always aware of the great generosity you have shown them by taking them in. How wonderful that kind Captain Bordon now has a comfortable home. I am certain he will prove a worthy clergyman. His wife sounds very amiable, even though she is from New York._

_You would stare if I told you the price of eggs! Everything here is terribly expensive, but Alice and I contrive as best we can. Despite all Colonel Balfour's fair words, we have three officers billeted upon us. Two of them are Scotch Highlanders and we can barely understand them when they speak. They keep spirits in their rooms, and sometimes I hear loud banging noises in the night. I have had to pack all the figurines away. The third officer, Captain Straitharn, I have not seen the worse for liquor, but he has a very satirical turn of speech. I had expected better of Colonel Balfour, who has always been kind to us otherwise. At least he is better than General Leslie, who is an odd-looking man of very bad judgement._

___Prepare yourself for something extraordinary, my dear Jane. I hope you are not too shocked and horrified to hear about what that coachman of yours—that Seth has done. It is very horrifying that he would so prove himself unworthy of the Colonel's kindness in freeing him, but you know I have never thought that manumission was a sound practice. It gives the Negroes very strange ideas. Indeed the fault is not entirely his, since some of the British—and I must include General Leslie in this—do not understand the necessity of treating them with firmness. With charity, too, of course—but above all, with firmness._

___General Leslie has taken it into his head to train some of the Negroes as soldiers! Yes, my dear, it is too true! He has armed them and is training them to fight against the rebels! There is an entire of regiment of them—called the "Black Dragoons"—and that Seth of yours sold the chariot the Colonel so kindly gave him—sold it! As if it were actually his!—and has joined this motley band—I hardly know how to describe it. Truth is best, my dear. Seth took his horses and an old fowling piece he must have stolen from somewhere, and he joined the Black Dragoons. They have uniforms—or at least uniform jackets, Jane, and they drill on horseback! Some of us have gone out to see such a sight, and there was Seth, sitting up high on his horse, armed with a sword! And looking mightily pleased with himself._

___They drilled—and it was shocking how well they rode. I prophesy that this colony will suffer because of this. It is all very well for the British, who will be leaving after the war is over, but those of us who live here will hardly dare to sleep for fear of being murdered in our beds! If the King approves this, then I must say that it is past time that South Carolina was independent! I am sorry if it hurts you, my dear, but I know you will forgive me. The British simply do not understand our special way of life._

___Well, when the Negroes were dismissed by their officers, I called Seth over and I asked him what he meant by disregarding the Colonel's wishes and being so ungrateful. He had the impudence to tell me that he thought the Colonel would be 'mighty proud" of him! Indeed! He said the Colonel was a fine man and would be proud to know Seth was "a soldier in the King's Army!" that "He was a dragoon himself, now, and was fixin' to be a Corporal soon!" My mouth must have just hung open, for then he smiled at me and bowed, and turned his horse away. It was frightful! He dared to ape the Colonel—to the life! With what ideas has General Leslie filled these creatures' heads? I am sorry to have to tell you unpleasant new, Jane, but it makes me happier than ever that the little boys are safe. I hope you can keep Letty from getting silly ideas above her station, at least. Some of the British soldiers have actually 'married' women of colour! It is true! At least they claim to be married, but it could not be legal, could it?_

___Enough of such things! Here is some good news. Eleanor has married Philip Middleton. He has a nice place, up the Santee, and waited until he could rebuild before he offered for her. They have known each other all their lives, of course, and so are unlikely to have any surprises. I could not help wishing that you could have settled down the same way with poor Ralph Manigault. It would have been nice to have you nearby._

___That Lady Cecily sounds very hoity-toity to me! I hope you do not let her impose upon you, my dear. They may have titles, but you are a Rutledge—and that always counts for a great deal. They should realize how fortunate they were to have you marry into their family!_

___Could you send me some of the newest fashion papers? Mrs. Lewis Pinckney wore the strangest confection you ever saw to church, pleated in the back like the old "robe d'anglaise"—and said it was the latest thing! I did not believe her, for you know the Pinckneys and how they tell stories._

___Speaking of them, Alice had a letter from Selina a few months ago. She asked after the boys, and made excuses, and then boasted about her new husband, and then said she hoped to see the boys "someday when this cruel War is over and Won." I daresay Alice's reply took the wind out of her sails, but we have heard nothing further. Alice believes she is—in an interesting condition—by her new husband. He may not be eager to take another man's children under his roof. Perhaps she wants to forget her old life, too, for she said nothing about taking the boys, even if she saw them "someday." All the more reason for them to be in your care!_

___Wargrave Hall sounds like such a quaint old place, Jane, but do not let those Tavingtons make a servant of you. I daresay Sir John does not own half the acreage poor Ashbury once claimed! Your letter sounded so happy, as if you were enjoying Christmas thoroughly. Of course you would, far from the war and its dangers. I do not blame you, Jane, but I confess I envy you._

___My best compliments to the Colonel, of course. Whenever you see Captain Bordon, remember me to him. So much better that he is a clergyman!_

___Your loving cousin,_

___Mary Laurens_

Jane groaned and laughed over the letter by turns. Tavington watched her with interest, and then said impatiently. "Oh, read the wretched thing aloud, Jane! You know you want to!"

"I hardly know what to make of it," she answered, but immediately read it out. She understood it better the second time, and tried not to be annoyed at her husband's vocal approval of Seth.

"I knew he was the sort to go for a soldier," he nodded sagely. "That's why I didn't bring him back as a valet. I have no doubt he'll do well."

"Do well!" Jane screamed faintly. "He'll be killed! If the British evacuate Charlestown, do you think they'll take him with them?"

"They might," Tavington said, sounding uncertain.

"Well, if they don't, he's a dead man. Every single one of those poor Negroes has a price on his head now. The planters of South Carolina will never forgive them for bearing arms. They might just as well give themselves up to be hanged directly!"

Tavington snorted. "I don't think Seth is the sort to give himself up!"

"So much the worse for him! Do you know what is _done_ to rebellious slaves in South Carolina? They won't just be hanged—they'll be hanged, drawn, and quartered! I wish we could send him some money for passage! Maybe—"

"No." Tavington said. "He's a grown man, and he's taken the King's shilling. He'll not thank us for treating him like a child. Are you going to tell your cousin about Letty?" he asked, smiling slyly.

"Letty! Oh, Heavens!" Jane threw the letter to the floor. "Cousin Mary will fall down dead if she hears about Letty."

Tavington began to grin. "I think you should tell her—everything. The Dowager Viscountess Fanshawe—thirty thousand pounds—fifty thousand for her child. Be sure to describe her house in detail."

"That will only convince her of the utter depravity of the British!" She sighed, and sat down beside her husband. "I wonder if she would even believe me." Tavington laid a reassuring hand on her thigh and squeezed.

"And you can tell her I _am '_mighty proud' of Seth. I wish I could see his impression of me."

Laughing, Jane leaned back against his shoulder. "I wish I could, too!"

"And you can helpfully explain what causes the banging noises she hears at night."

"Certainly not! She must know—she was married, after all, even if only briefly." She shook her head again. "Where shall I begin? So much has happened!"

"She will want to know, first and foremost, that you are happy." He tilted her face up to him. "Are you?"

"Very, very happy, William. And you? Are _you_ happy?"

"Don't I appear to be happy? I tell you Jane, it was the luckiest day of my life when I met you!"

She smiled and kissed him, with a little secret sigh. _I mustn't say anything else. I mustn't spoil this. Lucky for me that I had twenty thousand pounds! It proved quite enough to get myself a man!_

* * *

**Next—A Soldier's Wife**

**Notes:** Attending a ball at Almack's was the summit of social validation. In time, it became, even more than at Court, the place where matches were made, since the Queen's Drawing Rooms were considered increasingly stuffy and dull. It was a hall of gilt pilasters, and cost a subscription of ten guineas during the twelve week Season for a ball and supper every week. The refreshments were notoriously mediocre—the place had such social panache that good meals could be dispensed with.

The Black Dragoons were real, and fought on for years after the British evacuated Charleston themselves (for years, in fact, after the official end of the war). With the departure of their British officers, they chose captains among their own and called themselves "Soldiers of the King's Army." A bitter campaign of annihilation was waged against them by the victorious Patriots. Most were killed eventually, but a few escaped west and a few south into Florida, where some joined the native tribes in the swamps, and others journeyed on to the islands in the Caribbean as free men. I would like to think that Seth was one of them.

Thank you to all my reviewers for your interesting ideas!


	74. A Soldier's Wife

**Chapter 74: A Soldier's Wife**

It was a very pleasant thing, Tavington reflected, to make one's friends and family happy. The glow from knighthood and promotion did not soon fade. Tavington moved through the world smiling, relishing the vindication and recognition after years of danger and social ostracism. The pleasure he felt at being addressed by Lord Cornwallis as "Sir William" when they met at Horse Guards was not easily to be described. He was a general—and unlike Cornwallis—was not a general who had surrendered an entire army to the enemy. Cornwallis had also politely mentioned the Memoirs, remarking favorably on Tavington's generous portrayal of his soldiers. The words that pleased him most, however, were the last.

"And tender my compliments to Lady Tavington," Cornwallis had added. "She is a brave woman."

Tavington brought the courtesy home as a gift to Jane. He had never forgotten how dismissive Cornwallis had been of poor Jane at that ball in Charlestown so long ago. He was not disappointed: Jane was pleased to be mentioned by name. She, too, had a long memory for slights, and smiled all through dinner.

The Tavington family, in fact, was very much at the apogee of fame and success. While Jane and Tavington might feel the keenest joy in their own situation, it was John's peerage that attracted the attention of a large part of fashionable London. Mothers of eligible daughters pricked up their ears at the name of the new-made peer, and just as quickly sighed with disappointment at the news that he was to be married in May. Women who had not looked at John before, now found much to admire in his tall person and affable manner.

"But the Tavingtons have always been a handsome family," agreed the ladies at the ball at Almack's, watching the brothers move through the figures of the dances.

Said one, "Lady Tavington cannot be called beautiful, but she is very accomplished and elegant, and has a certain _je ne sais quoi. _How well she dances."

Her friend replied, "The French are so understanding about such things. One might almost call her a _"jolie laide._Something of a heroine, if Sir William's book is to be believed."

"I'm inclined to credit his stories. Everyone has heard about her fearlessness with those highwaymen. And yet she is quite well-bred. Very musical, I understand, though not her sister's equal, of course."

"Oh, certainly not! I quite dote on Lady Fanshawe! Such beauty and sweetness—and such a voice! How delightful is will be when she is able to take her place in society once more. I have heard that her house is exquisite. I expect her _salon_ will be the most refined and exclusive in town!"

The lady patronesses of Almack's, always quick to notice those who would be an ornament at their balls, were eager to have the Tavingtons subscribe for the Season. John was indifferent, since he knew that Emily would have little desire to be seen in public. Their hasty marriage, when others might think she ought to remain in mourning for her first husband, would certainly raise some eyebrows. Nonetheless, his sisters told him the ten guineas was worth it to secure a future place for his lady. Jane agreed with them, and Tavington bought a subscription himself, though ten guineas was a substantial sum, given that their income was so much less than John's.

"I am very fond of dancing," Jane urged him. "And Almack's is such a handsome place! Consider it an investment in the future. As long as we have a good dinner before going there, it is very agreeable."

"A _very_ good dinner," Tavington grumbled. "That was the sorriest excuse for a supper I've ever endured!"

"Worse than my squirrel stew?" she teased.

He surrendered, smiling. "Considering that it was at a ball in London, during the Season!"

Not too long thereafter, a visitor presented himself at Mortimer Square when Jane and her sisters-in-law were at home. Rivers did not know the tall, well-dressed gentleman, and was a little surprised at the stir, when he announced, "Mr. Strakes."

Penelope nearly jumped from her chair. "Oh! Mr. Strakes!"

Jane and Caroline repressed their smiles and came forward to greet him. "What a pleasant surprise, sir," said Jane. "We are very happy to see you in town." Seeing Penelope's pleading look, Jane added, "We hope to have the pleasure of your company at dinner tonight."

"I thank you," the schoolmaster replied briefly. He had never been a talkative man, except among close male friends. There were too many strangers here for him to chat comfortably. Caroline and Penelope guided him over to their friend Mrs. Montagu, whom they knew had views similar to his own.

Jane hardly had time to speak to him herself, for Mrs. Tazewell had something she wanted to speak to Jane quietly about, and it would not do to be rude.

"Has Sir William said anything to you about a command?" she asked, very curious. "My dear Charles is certain that he is to be offered something very soon."

"A command?" Jane echoed. "I have not heard a syllable."

"I hope it is a staff appointment," Mrs. Tazewell encouraged her. "A man of his experience should advise Lord Amherst. Charles thinks very highly of Sir William."

"That sounds like a splendid idea," agreed Jane, thinking that the best possible place for William—if he could not be always at home-- was in a comfortable office at Horse Guards. Surely there would be hunting and shooting and exploring parties to absorb his energy and vigor. She must not let him feel hemmed in. But an aide to the Commander of the Forces—that sounded like such a safe, sensible occupation. She had news of her own for William, and wanted to talk to him privately as soon as possible.

After a few minutes, Strakes came over to speak to her quietly. "Do you expect Lord Wargrave to join you at dinner tonight?"

"Yes. He comes nearly every day. He will certainly be here tonight."

"Good. I wish to speak to him and to Sir William, Lady Tavington, on a matter of some delicacy." He looked very stern, and Jane thought she had never seen anyone appear less than an ardent swain. Uneasily, she wondered if he really intended to propose to Penelope. They had jested about it, but what if he _really_ did? And what if Penelope accepted him? How would Caroline feel about it? Where would they live?

She made herself smile, and then attended to her guests. The room bloomed with beauty as Letty and Harmonia arrived. They were full of news about their new drawing teacher. Letty was learning to work in charcoal, and the man had seen Harmonia's earlier work and praised it. The talk turned to painting and portraits. Letty wanted a miniature of Jane, and then a companion piece of Sir William. Would Jane sit for such a picture?

"I have always loved miniature portraits!" Letty exclaimed. "They are like jewels, with their rich colors and lovely settings! Mr. Valentine says that Mr. Cosway is the best painter of miniatures, and his wife, too, is a splendid artist. I should like to know them. Wouldn't you like to have a picture made?"

Jane laughed ruefully. "I can think of other faces more worth the paint!"

"Nonsense!" Letty disagreed. "It is _your_ face I like to look upon! I wonder what would be prettiest? Perhaps that French cap of yours? Or even a hat? Oh! I have an idea! Pearl necklaces are too small and white to show well in a miniature, but if you were to wear a black velvet ribbon around your neck, and pin your pearl brooch to it, it would look very well, and would show off your long neck!"

"That _is_ a pretty idea!" agreed Harmonia, resolving instantly to wear such a ribbon herself. Lady Fanshawe had wonderful ideas about clothes and ornaments. "It might set a new fashion!"

Jane agreed to schedule a sitting with Mr. Cosway immediately, and to do her best to persuade her husband to join her. "I admit that I would like to have a little picture of William for my dressing table—or on my escritoire in the morning room."

"It would be very handsome!" Harmonia declared, and then blushed. Jane and Letty were kind enough to refrain from laughing at her or scolding her.

Jane looked up and saw Caroline in earnest conversation with Mrs. Tazewell. Penelope and Strakes were not to be seen.

"They left the room together," Harmonia whispered, noticing Jane's glance. "Mr. Strakes and Miss Penelope. Perhaps they needed to confer privately about one of Miss Penelope's charities!"

She seemed unable to imagine what else two middle-aged individuals might have to discuss, so Jane and Letty caught each other's eye and continued their conversation about portraiture. About five minutes later, Penelope and Strakes returned. His face was unreadable: set in its usual grim lines. Penelope, however, was pink as a rose, blushing like a young girl, and radiant with happiness. She sat demurely by her sister and joined the conversation in progress.

-----

After the ladies had left the table that night, Strakes wasted no time.

"Your sister, Miss Penelope, has been so good as to pledge herself to me." he told the brothers. "It lies, then, with you. I cannot pursue the matter without your consent."

John was still mulling the matter over his wine, when Tavington asked forthrightly, "And how do you propose to provide for her?"

Strakes replied with cool pleasure that he had lately—very lately—come into his inheritance at last. "The Duke, my cousin, has relented. I found myself at last in a position to be my own master. You must understand, my lord," he said to John, "that I will be resigning my position as schoolmaster, but I can recommend an excellent man in my place."

"Of course," John said faintly. "Glad you've come into your rights. Damn good thing. Can you provide my sister with a home, or—"

"There is a house I have long admired," Strakes informed them. "It has been empty for some time, and the owner lives in London, and wished to be rid of it. Perhaps you have seen it. Templar's Grange, near the village of Larrowhead."

"You will be nearby!" John said, looking pleased. "You must understand that we would be very sorry for Pen to go very far away—you too, for that matter."

"Yes. I never wished to leave the country I have grown to love over the years," Strakes answered. "And it is convenient to the excavations at Old Wargrave Hill we have discussed. The house is not very large, but it has always pleased me. I have secured it, along with the single farm that appends to it. The farmer, Hayward, is a reliable tenant. You may believe that I shall always care for your sister's comfort and happiness."

"And she's said yes?" John asked, rather dazed by the reality. "Pen has so many friends here in London. Living in the country will be a great change."

"An agreeable one, I trust," Strakes replied stiffly. "She has assured me that she has no fear of a country life."

"Of course not," Tavington muttered. "Well—our sister is of age and fully mistress of her fortune. All we can say is—"

"—Bless you, and may you be happy," John finished the sentence. "Have another glass, Strakes. When do you wish to plan the day?"

"As soon as the banns can be pronounced," Strakes said instantly. "We think it would be pointless to wait any longer. On the other hand, I see no need to waste money on a special license. In three weeks. That would be the seventeenth of April."

"So soon…" said John under his breath.

They joined the ladies, and the announcement was made. There were cries of excited delight, and some of surprise, and some that betrayed a hint of consternation. Caroline had never imagined that her sister and life-long companion would actually leave her after so long. Jane saw her brave attempts to hide her distress, and held her hand sympathetically. "I know what it is to have a sister move away," she whispered in Caroline's ear. "I shall do my best to make good her absence to you."

Caroline forced a smile and squeezed Jane's hand in response.

"Templar's Grange!" John said aloud. "I remember it now. We always called it 'The Yellow House.' The Conants lived there until the last of them died out. Fellow who bought it didn't much care for the country after all. Good land there, and I recall the garden had the jolliest quince tree!"

"And it is only a few miles from Wargrave Hall," Jane added. "I believe I saw it when I rode to Larrowhead once. A very respectable-looking residence, though I did not see the garden, of course."

"You must make a list," Letty suggested, "of what you will need in your new home. Does it have an instrument?"

Strakes, in his laconic way, assured them that it was decently furnished, but he had not noticed any musical instruments. Penelope forced him to describe the rooms in detail—far more detail than he would normally have troubled with. It sounded adequate, if a little spare, to Jane. Penelope, of course, owned books and her own little writing desk; and the harp in the drawing room had been purchased for her. Strakes might be more interested in the books left in the study he had already laid claim to, but the ladies quizzed him mercilessly about the available stores of linen and china, and Jane resolved that Pen should have a handsome wedding present from her.

"The four thousand apiece we received can be put to good use, I see," she whispered to Caroline. "Penelope will enjoy making her purchases."

Caroline was very pale. "I shall buy her a pianoforte from my own share," she said in a determined way. "Her house must have one."

"That is a lovely idea," Jane agreed. "And I was thinking about going to the Wedgwood display rooms in St. James Square to purchase her china. I suppose I should have her come along and choose the pattern she prefers."

"Let's all go!" Letty suggested. "I would like to find something for Sir John's wedding, too." She added, after a moment, "But let us do it _after_ we have called on Mr. Cosway!"

After so much excitement—such a tremendous announcement—Jane felt unaccountably shy about revealing her own news to her husband. He had much to say in private to her about Penelope's marriage prospects with Strakes. He liked the man, but wondered if Penelope was really prepared for such a change.

"Do you think she understands much about marital relations?" he asked Jane anxiously, as they lay curled up together, on the edge of sleep. "She is so sheltered."

"Not as sheltered as you might think, William," Jane murmured. "After all, she is a patroness of the Magdalen, and has heard some shocking stories from the women there. She is not a young girl, after all."

"Still," he insisted, "it's one thing to hear stories and another to experience the reality. What if Strakes hurts her? When it comes to it, I know nothing of the man's personal life!"

"The consent has been given," Jane reminded him. "All we can do is hope for the best." She remembered the fright and pain of her own wedding night, and sighed. William was naturally concerned about the sister whom he loved—far more than he had been for the Colonial girl whom he had barely known when he took her as his wife. She shuddered, hoping Penelope would not be treated likewise. She was such a sweet, gentle soul. "We must make the best of it, and give them a lovely, practical gift to start married life upon. I thought of taking her to Wedgwood's and letting her choose a china set."

"Very nice," he grunted sleepily. He began snoring, after a moment, and Jane smiled into the darkness, envisioning elegant colors and patterns until she too drifted away.

-----

At breakfast the following morning, Tavington received a note from Lord Amherst, Commander of the Army, requiring his presence. Tavington's eyes brightened, reading the flowing script, and his heart swelled at the possibility that this would be the day he was given his first command as a general officer. He glanced around the beloved faces at the table. Everyone was still raking over blushing Pen's prospects. He would say nothing now. Better to have news of his own when they met again later. He made a point of kissing Jane before he left, and then was off, barely able to contain his anticipation.

At Horse Guards, he strode smartly through the halls, a swing and swagger in his step, and was shown in at once. He made his bow to Amherst, and glanced about the room. He felt a faint twinge of foreboding when he saw Sir Edward Claypoole warming himself before the fire, smiling like a sphinx.

Cornwallis was there, too, looking very serious and tired. Tazewell gave him a faint smile and nod, and seemed not entirely satisfied by whatever had been in discussion before Tavington entered the room.

"Come, sit down, Sir William," Amherst waved vaguely to a chair at the table. "We have much to discuss. Come away from the fire, Claypoole. Let's start directly."

Tavington slid into his chair, watching Claypoole narrowly. Something was afoot, and Crown was involved in it.

Claypoole sat opposite him, still smiling. He eyed Tavington with something like amused sympathy, and then spoke.

"His Majesty, in his concern for his devoted subjects in the rebellious Colonies, wishes especial care be taken for their relief and security. As you know, Sir Guy Carleton has lately embarked to replace Sir Henry Clinton as Commander in North America. It is His Majesty's particular wish that you, Sir William, join Sir Guy in New York as his aide, with a special commission to see the unhappy provincial troops settled as justly and expeditiously as possible."

It took every shred of self-control to master his expression. "And what troops are to be under my command?" Tavington asked, with commendable calm.

"None." Amherst told him bluntly. "I've none to spare. You are being sent out in an advisory capacity. I can well imagine that this is not what you might have hoped, but His Majesty is quite set on this." He glanced coldly at Sir Edward, who bowed with a faint, debonair smile. "His Majesty seems to think that only you can see to the poor wretches, after reading that book of yours." His level gaze told Tavington all he needed to know. Tavington's honour and credit were at stake: any refusal would brand him a hypocrite and a fraud.

"I'm to have no men _at all_?" Tavington asked, delaying the inevitable.

"No regular troops. I really have none to give, and no funds to victual them abroad if I did. However," said Amherst, with another frigid look in Claypoole's direction, "find yourself an aide or two—and I'd advise a secretary. No doubt you'll be smothered in paper. You'll want your own manservant, of course, and I'll authorize a guard of four Dragoons. If four from your own regiment will volunteer, so much the better. That's all I can scrape for you. You'll have your commission, and will have authority in this matter over any other officer of the Crown, save Sir Guy, of course. I daresay much of your time will be spent in Nova Scotia, where the greatest number of the soldiers are to be given land."

Tavington felt as if he had taken a beating. "How soon am I to leave?"

Another glance away. "His Majesty is very anxious for you to undertake this as soon as possible. The frigate _Hagar _sails from Portsmouth to New York in nine days. Passage for your party is being arranged as we speak. Do you accept this mission?"

He was trapped, and knew it. All he could do was not display his pain and disappointment for Claypoole's sport. With a cool smile, he said, "I do indeed, and am grateful for this opportunity to assist my old comrades." He fixed Claypoole with a steely gaze. "And do please inform His Majesty of my appreciation."

There was some further discussion, which Tavington hardly heard, and then the meeting broke up. Tazewell shook his hand in commiseration, whispering, "It doesn't do when the Palace tries to tell us our business. I daresay this is looked upon as some sort of reward, but of course—being sent out—no proper force—" he trailed off. "Good luck to you."

Cornwallis, too, said as much. "It is a very important task, to be sure, though they could as easily sent out a parcel of surveyors and clerks, as send a general!" He too, did not understand that this was indeed a punishment, and accepted the Crown's ignorance in burdening Tavington with it. "I wish you well, and Godspeed."

Tavington accepted these good wishes, and found a quiet corner to pull himself together. The news would break Jane's heart. She had not yet come to grips with what his career might mean for their life together. She would know, of course, that it was indeed retribution: an act of spite and anger against one who had dared to defy the Crown and knew its ugliest secrets.

However, he decided, as he walked out of the massive building, head held high, it could be much worse in her eyes. While this situation was humiliating and insulting, he would be in no physical danger—aside from the ordinary acts of God on sea and land. It genuinely was a mission of mercy to those for whom he had considerable regard. 'Surveyors and clerks,' indeed! He at least knew the men. As he walked, some of the swagger returned to his step. He could do them good, and perhaps he would be the one to bring the news of their inclusion in the regulars. Sir Guy he knew slightly. A cold, hard man, but an intelligent and principled one.

Before he even broke the news to Jane and the rest of his family, he must begin seeing to his staff. Amherst said 'one or two.' If he would pay for two, then by God, Tavington would take them. He would need good men—patient ones, too—for they would be dealing with the very 'surveyors and clerks' of whom Cornwallis had spoken. He wondered if any of his own officers knew anything of surveying.

He longed to take Bordon with him, but knew it for a lost cause. Harriet had made Bordon promise never to leave her again. Tavington grumbled aloud at that. Bordon would have been ideal—a man who knew the soldiers, knew New York, knew the Indians, knew quite a few of the bloody rebels, too. No doubt he had dabbled in surveying and was a tactful man in the bargain. It was hopeless. He would send an express, but could already foresee the answer. He would send the express anyway. If Harriet relented—no, he must not indulge in false hopes—he would pay Bordon's passage and salary out of his own pocket. At the very least his friend might have advice and contacts that could be useful.

The barracks were his first stop. He greeted the officers on duty, and mentioned that he would be dining in the mess that night. "I will be leaving for New York shortly, and will need some likely officers on my staff," he told them. "Put the word about, if you please." He noticed that no one present looked very enthusiastic at the notion. "I will also take four of the men with me. I would prefer volunteers, but one way or another, I'll have them. I want you to compose a list of reliable, unmarried men." He was out and away, already considering what to do next.

What would Sir Guy think, on his arrival? A court favorite, come to look over his shoulder? He must do his best not to irritate Carlton. With luck, the man would welcome someone to relieve him of some of the work. Tavington knew he was not the smoothest or most diplomatic of men, but he would do his damnedest, this time. He had his promotion and his knighthood, after all. There were worse ways to pay for them.

His traveling kit, of course. He must get it put together right away. He had come from Charlestown in fairly disreputable condition. He would have some uniforms made immediately—warm ones, to bear the Nova Scotia winter, and cool weather ones, to bear America's summer heat. He would have a good supply of boots. Plenty of paper and ink, God help him! A book about surveying. He would learn what he could of it on the voyage. Perhaps surveying tools as well. It might be wise to have his own. He was going as a bloody general, for God's sake, so he would take a chest of tea and sugar and all the luxuries that would certainly be in short supply in besieged New York. A chess set. A folding camp bed and folding table and chair. A first-rate tent. Nova Scotia was not heavily settled from all accounts.

Nova Scotia! He knew next to nothing about it! He must find someone who did, and squeeze every drop of information he could before he left. Protheroe might know men in the City who had traveled there. He would write a note to him. He must consult experts, and must buy the best maps of the place to be had.

Tarleton, he guessed, would not go, but he knew his own men well, and could advise Tavington about their characters and ambitions. George Hangar, the British Legion's second-in-command, was in New York, from all accounts. Tavington would try to make use of him, though he thought Hangar was an ass. He was the officer on the spot, though, and no doubt was heavily involved with whatever was being done for the British Legion, at least.

Good God! He would have to tell Doggery. He could not force his valet to go to New York, but he would hate to lose the man. A clever, loyal fellow, and stronger than he looked. He would have to offer to raise his wages.

By the time he had visited his tailor's and bootmaker's and all the other necessary shops, he had completely resigned himself to his mission, and was intent on making a success of it. Going home, he forced himself to remember that it would still be a shock to Jane. How to break it to her?

Privately, of course. When Rivers met him at the door, he told the butler to ask Lady Tavington to come to the library. He stood before the fire, gazing at the flames, and thinking regretfully of all the balls at Almack's he would miss, all the summer pleasures at Wargrave he would miss, all the joys of seeing the boys learning to walk and talk he would miss. It sobered him, and when he turned at Jane's light step, his throat was aching.

"William? What it is?"

"My dear Jane!" He strode quickly to her and took her in his arms. "I have grave news. The King—" He turned her face up to his and smiled wryly. "The King, it seems, will have his pound of flesh. I should have known he would find a way to have his revenge on our family. Luckily, it falls to me, and it is hard, but not a catastrophe." Her hazel eyes were wide with alarm, so he told her quickly. "I am commanded to join Sir Guy Carleton in New York, and am charged with settling the provincial soldiers on the lands the Crown has provided for them. Not a dangerous duty, but one that will separate us, I fear, for some time."

"No!" she seized him by the shoulders. "William! You can't go! How can you go when we need you? How unkind—how arbitrary of the King!" She shook her head. "Tell him you won't go! Tell him to find someone else!"

"Impossible!" He blew out a breath. "My book—I have done it to myself. I have set myself up as some sort of champion of the Loyalist cause, and now the King has called me to make good on it. I cannot refuse without losing every iota of credibility I have. I will make myself a laughingstock—a figure of scorn. I must go, if only to prove myself an honest man."

"Oh, William!" she moaned and held him fast. "This is horrible! Can't you put it off? This is such a important time—Penelope marrying, and John marrying, and Lucy due to have a baby in June, and the children so young—"

He told her the worst. "I must sail in nine days. That means I must leave London on the fifth."

For a moment he thought she would faint. "The fifth! That is no time at all!" She pushed away and began pacing the room. "I hate the King! I wish he would die!"

"Jane!"

"I _hate_ him! Selfish brute! This is nothing but pure spite!"

"Jane—we may know it, but we cannot let it appear that we do. I must put a good face on it, and after all, it is not an ignoble mission."

She paused, and sat down in a chair rather limply. "Yes. There is that. And you will not be fighting, but helping good people. There is that," she repeated. "Will you take your regiment?"

"No. Lord Amherst can spare nothing to me but a pair of aides and four dragoons as a guard. That is what is worst, from my point of view. I am merely an advisor, sent out as aide to Sir Guy. I shall see if I can't find my aides tonight, when I dine with my officers. I must find a secretary. I'll also take Doggery, of course, if he will go."

"He had better!" Jane blazed. She thought a little longer. "Perhaps I could go, too—perhaps—"

He had not expected this, and was deeply moved. It was impossible, of course. "No, Jane. Of course you cannot go. I do not want to risk the children on that long voyage again, and you must be with them. You must stay and keep our home and name in honour, and I must leave. We each have our duty, and must bear it bravely."

And now the tears. They grieved him quite a bit, and he held her again, trying to console her. "At least we shall have a few days, my darling. I have a great deal to do. I have already made some orders for what I shall need to take, but you can help me, too."

She wiped her eyes, and answered stoutly. "Of course I'll help you!

It had been a terrible shock, but Jane was already coming to terms with it. She decided that the King was a swine, but he would not beat them down. William would return to America better provided for than any general ever had. And then she remembered her errand this afternoon.

"Oh, William! Today I was at Mr. Cosway's, having my picture made. I must have a picture of you, too!"

"You can always go up to the ballroom, if you wish to see me," he laughed, very glad that he had posed for the portrait.

"No! I want a little picture of you too, that I can carry with me. I shall write to Mr. Cosway directly and tell him that it must be done instantly!"

"And I must have that picture of you, to take with me," he agreed, stroking her cheek.

"Yes!" She was better now that she had things to do. "I shall ask him to make a copy for you. And you must have a telescope! I had forgotten. I shall get one for you Monday and have it engraved. It will be my special present to you—except--" She stopped, and bit her lip. "Oh, William! I had news of my own for you, but I dislike to tell you anything that may distress you—"

"Well--tell me, by all means. What is it? he asked, alarmed.

"I think—I am not certain—but I _think_ I may be with child."

"Jane!" He gave her a squeeze and then let her go, concerned. "Are you well? When do you think the child might come? Why did you not tell me before?"

"I wasn't certain!" she wailed. "My courses—" she told him. "They are late. _Very_ late."

"Ah." He understood. He had not noticed. Women's courses were an inconvenient mystery. He had not noticed, really, but now that he thought of it, their absence had been pleasantly welcome.

"If I am expecting a child," she told him, "it would be due—perhaps—in December or January."

"And I will not be here."

"No." She leaned her head on his shoulder. "We must tell the others. They will be so sorry you cannot be at their weddings."

"I shall try to help you find presents before I leave."

"And you must help me choose names. A name for a boy and for a girl. You must."

He kissed the top of her head. "I promise I shall."

-----

The news of Tavington's mission to America was met by his family with grief and resentment: grief that they would lose his company, and resentment against the King. John was miserable, feeling guilty that he had wrung so much for himself, when the consequences were to be borne by his brother. They played a game of billiards when Tavington came home that evening, and talked it over.

"Damn it all! I shall miss you, old fellow. Ever since you returned, this family has been doing better and better! It's all due to you, and to Lady Tavington, of course!"

"Well, Jane isn't going anywhere. She offered, bless her, but obviously it won't do. I'm relying on you and your future lady to keep her company."

"No fear there! Emily thinks the world of her. We'll have her and the children out to Wargrave all summer, if we can! Fanny loves Ash, of course, and everyone will want to see what happens when Bordon and Strakes start digging into the Hill."

"I'll be sorry to miss it."

"Well—it's a big place. I daresay there could be years of work there. Of course," he said judiciously, "Your wife has Lady Fanshawe too, and her with a child on the way. She's made some good friends, and she'll have quite a bit to occupy her."

"It's possible that there's another Tavington on the way, too. Possibly around Christmas."

"Ha! Good news, that! Sorry that'll you'll miss the lying-in. Are you hoping for a boy or a girl this time?"

"My hopes are not much to the purpose. I'd be pleased with either, as long as the child is healthy and strong. Jane has charged me with giving her some names before I've gone."

"Hmmm. Richard is good. The head of the family was almost always Richard, until our father's older brother died. And there are so many pretty names for girls—sorry we've already taken Frances. I daresay Cecily is right out, though."

"I think even suggesting it would be a bad idea. Her mother's name was Clarissa, but Jane doesn't like the name particularly."

"Ha! Can't stand it myself. I fancy good English names. If Emily and I had another girl, I'd want to name her Sarah after our grandmother."

"Then I'll consider Sarah spoken for. Jane likes poetry—especially Shakespeare. I might suggest a name from the plays: Juliet, Viola, Isabel, Cordelia—"

"—Goneril, Regan, Gertrude—"

"Ugh!" He missed his shot cleanly, and John laughed at him. Tavington stood back, and said, "And then there are the Classical names. One can be very fanciful there: Artemisia, Lavinia, Valeria—"

"---Cleopatra, Cassiopeia, Andromache—"

"This is a serious matter, John! My child's future name is at stake!" Tavington laughed himself.

"Then give her a name that won't make people snigger, old fellow. What's wrong with Anne or Elizabeth or Emma or Eleanor?"

"Lucy's already claimed Eleanor, if she throws a girl."

"That's right. I forgot. Well, whatever you name the child, he—or she—won't lack for doting relations!"

----- 

Tavington was impressed by how quickly Richard Cosway worked. His studio was far smaller than Sir Joshua Reynolds' vast interiors. It befitted a man who worked in miniature. Tavington was introduced to the pretty young wife, as well. She was learning the art, and doing very well at it too. There was some talk between her and Letty about coming to Letty's house to give Harmonia lessons in taking likenesses. If the girl could learn to do what Mrs. Cosway did, it would be quite an accomplishment, and worth every penny in fees.

Jane's picture was shaping up to be very, very pretty. In it, she wore her wide-brimmed, plumed hat, the brim curving back elegantly to one side, revealing the brightness of her hazel eyes. The huge black hat threw her light brown curls and pale skin into relief. Her expression made Tavington smile: a little bemused; a little ironic, as if saying, "Are you looking at me? Why?" The little black ribbon around her neck was charming. Tavington hoped she would wear it often. The background chosen was a cool blue-green, with purple highlights that hinted of storms far away. Tavington liked it so much that it was hard not to speak tactlessly of how much he wished the picture were full-sized. After all, the miniature could be finished far more quickly, and a copy, too, that would be ready before he must leave.

After they were told the reason for hurry, the Cosways were very understanding. Mrs. Cosway undertook at once to paint General Sir William Tavington. He had put his dress uniform coat in the carriage, just hoping for this opportunity. In short order, the lady had him sitting down, and was hard at work.

"Nothing over-elaborate in the pose," she told him. "A direct gaze to the observer will tell the whole story. I shall use a very light background, too, to contrast with the rich colours of your uniform and your dark hair. You are certain you did not wish it powdered? I could paint it white with no trouble."

"No. The natural color if you please, Mrs. Cosway. Neither Lady Tavington nor I care much for the artifice of powder."

She glanced up at him keenly, apparently pleased by his answer. Tavington thought her quite lovely. It was vexing to sit for a portrait, but having a pretty woman to admire while sitting was a consolation. It was hard not to grudge the hour spent, when there was so much he needed to do, but it was necessary, in the long run. Jane would be happier, and he would be happier, if they had these souvenirs of one another.

Cosway came by, now and then, to admire the work, and give some advice and a few touches of his own. The light changed, and he was asked to return tomorrow, when the work could be completed. Everyone had had a pleasant visit. Letty and Harmonia had spent the time practicing drawing themselves. Jane was so happy with her little picture, ("though it flatters me too much!") which now only needed to dry and be copied and framed. The copy, it was agreed, would be Lady Fanshawe's. The original would be ready to accompany Sir William to New York. Cosway suggested a metal case that could be fastened shut to protect the likeness.

They parted soon after: Jane to be driven home by Letty, and he to go to join his officers at the mess.

He had hoped to find his aides that very night, but was only partially successful. Ambitious Guards officers were not eager to go so far to associate themselves with a lost war. However, one of his younger captains, George Lilly, was restless, and wanting to get away from a stifling situation at home. The idea of a long voyage, of seeing New York 'while it was still possible,' of accompanying a general on an advisory mission, seemed a welcome adventure. Tavington wished the young man knew something more substantial than how to cut a dash in town, but he did not seem stupid or malicious, and something might be made of him. He had no idea, of course, of the hardships that might fall their way, but Tavington saw no reason to treat him like a child.

He had not expected Lord Alan St. Leger to offer to go with him, and so was not disappointed. However, Lord Alan could recommend a mutual cousin who might be very eager for the honour of a staff appointment.

"A second cousin, actually. He's with the Hampshires, and hasn't much hope of promotion. He's a St. Leger, certainly, but the younger son of a younger son of a younger son, and there's no money, you see. Father's a clergyman. Very decent sort. I knew him a bit at school, though he was a few years older. Rather serious for my taste, but I think he'd be glad to make himself useful."

Tavington found himself interested in St. Leger's rather off-hand recommendation, and sent an offer to the man at once. There was something to be said for family ties, and Simon St. Leger was just as much his cousin as he was Lord Alan's.

He had heard from Bordon, and was prepared for the refusal, but his friend did send him list of men whom Tavington should try to look up in New York, and some books Bordon recommended reading. Knowing how particular Bordon was about his books, Tavington was touched to receive them.

He would not even try to bring horses with him, and certainly not his own. Trying to keep horses alive during the hard journey across the Atlantic was a sobering proposition. He would do better to buy horses in New York, though they might be expensive and hard to obtain. Perhaps he would have better luck in Nova Scotia. Someone must be raising horses there, he presumed. He could not see that he needed a carriage to prop up his vanity. He would take saddles and firearms, of course.

Captain St. Leger came by post-chaise, and was in London in two days. He was older than Tavington expected: nearly thirty. He was unmarried and unattached and quite at Sir William's service. Tavington rather took to him, and invited him to dinner at Mortimer Square, along with George Lilly. Neither of them really understood what service in North America could mean, and so he gave them a suggested list of what they would need and told them to have it ready by the third. It also occurred to him that St. Leger might not have infinite funds at his disposal, and invited him to stay at the house until they departed. It was more work for Jane, but she seemed to like the idea of getting to know a man who would be spending so much time with her husband.

-----

Jane did like Simon St. Leger. She rather preferred him to George Lilly, whom she considered too entirely ornamental. She thought Captain St. Leger was rather like herself: not very good-looking, but serious and sensible and anxious to make a good job of whatever was before him. It was clear that a staff appointment was something that had previously been beyond his hopes. Used to the tangled web of relationships in South Carolina, it was not hard to accept the addition of another cousin of her husband's to their household.

What was something new for her to think about, was how these relationships worked in England. Between primogeniture and entailment, this young man was virtually penniless. He might be the great-nephew of a marquess, but his grandfather had inherited only a mother's dower house and a small estate. That estate had passed to his son, and a younger son became a country clergyman with a decent living, but little to leave his own children. He, in turn, had given one of his livings to his eldest son, also a clergyman. The younger son had gone for a soldier. The family could purchase commissions up to the rank of captain; but no further. Thus, in three generations, Jane could see St. Legers declining from peers of the realm to private gentlemen of few resources or prospects. No wonder Simon was glad to attach himself to his more fortunate cousin, General Sir William Tavington.

"I was in very much the same situation when I went to America," William told her. "Very much a poor relation. I joined a provincial regiment because I could be promoted without purchase. My mother managed my later promotions by hounding her old friends. Otherwise I should still be in St. Leger's shoes."

"Oh," she laughed. "I very likely would still have married you, whether you were Colonel or Captain. Maybe your cousin will find himself an American heiress!"

"He could do worse!"

They were very tender with each other, these last few precious days. Jane was more and more certain that a child was on the way. The family drew close, and spent every dinner together. The Protheroes, even with Lucy great with child, came to visit. They would not be moving into the house on St. George Street until the first of May, and Jane had promised to help as much as possible.

Penelope was very sad that her younger brother would not see her married. She took time from her own preparations to go with Jane and Caroline to find the finest telescope that money could buy, and have it engraved:

_"General Sir William Mortimer Tavington, from his loving wife Jane_

_April 5, 1782."_

The miniatures were completed and framed and taken home to be admired—and cried over. Penelope begged Jane to have a copies made for her. "I am so happy to marry my dear Mr. Strakes, but I am sad and a little frightened too. _You_ will understand, I know, having come from your family into a strange land."

"I do understand. I shall certainly have a copy made of William's portrait. It is such a handsome picture! Why don't we make a collection together of your family? Lord Wargrave, and Caroline and all? We shall have a picture of you, too, wearing your wedding dress."

"And you must be in the collection, dear Jane. You are such a good sister to me. I know you will help Caro. She is not—entirely happy about all of this I know."

"Caroline wants you to be happy, but it is a great change for her. You must not forget that she is very important to me too. We both have sisters moving away, and will very much rely on each other's company—especially now…" Jane to her great embarrassment, began to shed tears. She tried very hard not to give way, but it was so dreadful that William must go.

Lord Colchester received a letter from Tavington, telling him of his departure and his mission to America, and appeared on the scene almost at once. He was not happy, not happy at all that Will must go, just as it seemed they had got him back. It was a hard thing to be a soldier, but a man must do his duty.

They would all go—the whole family—to the ball at Almack's on the third. They would show how proud they were of Sir William, and how his family loved him. Lucy, it was true, could not go, but she and Protheroe would meet them for dinner before the ball.

And so they did. The town spoke of brave and handsome Sir William, and how compassionate he was towards those unfortunate Loyal people. Jane smiled through the ball, accepting compliments on his behalf, and commiserations on her own. It was all well meant, and while she admitted she was very sorry it was necessary, she was glad her husband had been entrusted with the welfare of so many deserving souls. The evenings mattered little to her: the nights were theirs alone.

She made love to William with hungry fervor, hating the knowledge that these nights would be the last for a year and possibly more. William's mission would take time and painstaking care. They had baths together, they tried favorite positions together, they lay in bed and talked, wanting to save up memories for the lonely nights ahead.

At least _she_ would be lonely. Jane sighed to herself, pressed against her husband's side, wondering what his life would be like in New York. He was a man in his prime, with a man's natural vigor and appetites. He might find himself a mistress or satisfy himself with casual encounters. He had told her he loved her, but what if he were to fall in love with someone else? Jane hoped he would not. She hoped even more that he would not return with a horrible disease, or with more children for her to raise. It would be quite bad enough to deal alone with the ones she had.

In the morning there was a new crisis. Ash had heard the servants' gossip, and now knew that William was leaving them. He cried and screamed and pleaded for over an hour. Jane tried not to be cross with him, knowing that he was simply acting the way she would have like to have acted herself. When he was worn out, she sat with him, holding him in her lap, talking about the good times they would have this summer, even with William gone.

Ash listened, tears on his long lashes, and then declared, "_I'm_ never leaving home. Not ever! I wouldn't be a soldier for anything! Soldiers have to go away and fight!"

Jane was rather pleased. "You don't have to be a soldier, Ash. There are lots of other things men can do when they grow up. You might go away to school for a little while, but you would always come home."

He was not happy at this idea, but Jane assured him, "All boys go to school. Perhaps we can arrange it so you and Ned and Robin all go to the same school, so you can look after each other. Wouldn't that be fun?"

"Go to school with Ned and Robin?" That did not seem unattractive.

"Yes. Boys have good times at school. They learn important things, and play games and sports, and make lots of friends."

"Can Fanny come?"

"No, Ash," she sighed. "Girls and boys don't go to school together. If Fanny goes to school, it will be just with other girls."

"Like Susan?"

"Maybe. Anyway, not all boys grow up to be soldiers."

"I want to stay home!"

"Hmmm. Mr. Bordon is a clergyman, and he lives with his family."

"He lives far away!" Ash objected.

"Well, Mr. Protheroe is a lawyer, and he lives right here in London. In fact, he studied to be a lawyer right here in London too."

Ash gave a great sniff. "Then I'll be that!"

"If you like. I like London too, but this summer we'll go to Wargrave for a long visit, and you'll play with Robin and Susan and Fanny in the gardens."

"All right. William and Tom too?"

"Of course, but you'll be the oldest and the man of the family while the General is gone. Now, when he comes to say goodbye, you mustn't scream and fuss at him. You must be a brave boy and say goodbye nicely. He knows you're sorry he's leaving. He sorry to leave us too, but he has to go and help the poor soldiers who lost their homes."

"Will he get them new homes?"

"Yes, Ash. That is exactly what he will do. He will find new places for them to live, and make sure they get there safely. And those soldiers have wives and little children. He will help them, too. You wouldn't want little boys and girls not to have homes because the General wasn't there to help them?"

He allowed that it would sad not to have a home. Jane thought that was all she could expect for the present. William Francis and Thomas were too little to understand that their father was going away. Would they notice he was gone? The question made her heart hurt.

-----

The last night saw the whole family at Mortimer Square. The Trumfleets and Sattersbys were in attendance and all were carefully polite. Jane could not be bothered to see if Kitty tried to flirt with William. She had more important things to think about.

The family was quite kind to their cousin St. Leger, and very civil to George Lilly and to young Mr. Speke, Tavington's new secretary, who were also invited to dine. David Speke had only recently completed his studies at Cambridge, and his father was known to Lord Colchester.

Tavington tried to keep the talk light. Jane did her best to help, but was anxious to get rid of the guests and have her husband to herself. Upcoming marriages, upcoming births were spoken of, and then there were questions about Nova Scotia. Tavington was glad that he could answer most of them. His interviews with knowledgable men over the past few days had been useful. After dinner, there was music, and Jane played all of her husband's favorites, and then accompanied Letty in a song they both loved.

_"Soldier, oh soldier,_

_A-coming from the plain:_

_He courted a lady for honor and for fame._

_Her beauty shone so bright_

_That it never could be told._

_She always loved the soldier,_

_Because he was so bold…."_

Tavington said his farewells, and kissed Letty and Lucy. He shook Protheroe's hand (after a lengthy private conversation in the study). His uncle and brother actually embraced him, looking quite distressed, and promised once more to look after Lady Tavington and the children.

When Jane came down to join Tavington in bed, she did not even wait for his request, but tossed her nightcap carelessly aside. She drew her shift over her head, and let it whisper to the floor.

Tavington took her in his arms, laughing at her. "You look alarmingly determined. Should I fear for my virtue?"

"Yes."

Later, he wondered if he would have bruises on his back from her heels drumming against him. She was a fierce little thing, his wife, and he gave her a warm kiss afterwards. She was fierce, and so was he, and whatever the world might make of them as a couple, Fate had chosen better for him than he would have for himself.

"I wasn't too rough, was I?" he asked.

"Lovely," she murmured, half asleep. The past few days had been strenuous ones.

He rolled on his side, whispering in her ear. "I really am sorry to go, Jane. I daresay I shall be a great deal sorrier once I am on the other side of the Atlantic."

"Umm. You still haven't given me names. You are a very bad father, and the angels will weep for you."

He pinched her lightly, and she squeaked a protest.

"Richard, if it's a boy. John is right. It's a good old family name. I'd really rather call a boy John, but that wouldn't be fair. John still has a chance for a son of his own, and naturally he'll want to name a boy after himself."

"Umm." Jane said nothing more, not wanting to picture William Francis disinherited. She loved Wargrave Hall so very much.

"If I name a boy, it seems right to me that you name a girl. I still don't see why we can't call her Jane after you. It's very much the done thing."

"I hate my name. It's so dull. 'Plain Jane.' I've had to bear it all my life. I want my daughter to have a pretty name all her own."

"We could call her Jenny."

"There must be thousands of girls in England named Jenny."

"John likes Elizabeth."

"If she were John's daughter, I would heed that suggestion. The name is good in itself, but there are thousands of Elizabeths, too. The child isn't John's, by the way."

"Little devil!" he chuckled. "Well, one of the Shakespeare girls would do, or one of the classical ladies. Just not an awful one, I hope. Not Phoebe or Titania or Juno, anyway."

"It's so hard to decide. I suppose I like Juliet best. I like Aurora too."

Tavington was getting drowsy. "Well, put them together, and call yourself satisfied. I am…"

-----

Friday morning could not be prevented, and the carriage stood ready to take Tavington away. Captain Lilly and Mr. Speke had arrived early, as planned, and their small trunks were added to William's and Captain St. Leger's.

They had sent the greater portion of the party's luggage ahead. The four dragoons who were to go with them had also already gone, and would meet them in Portsmouth. Doggery sat up on the coachman's box with Scoggins, both men looking very gloomy. The valet had behaved from the first as if it were obvious that he would go wherever Sir William went.

"Who'd keep him fit to be seen, if I weren't there to do it?" he had asked, and set about preparing himself and his master for their venture. His own battered trunk was there on the coach roof as well. Jane was glad William would have someone familiar about him. William waved his companions ahead of him, wanting to keep the last moments for himself.

The children had been brought down. The babies were kissed tenderly and Ash was granted a grave handshake—and then a kiss too, when he sobbed and threw his arms around Tavington's neck.

"Be a good boy and look after your sister for me, won't you?"

"I will! And you be good too!"

Tavington ruffled the bright hair, and Jane smiled at him through her tears.

Caroline and Penelope must be embraced and kissed, and special words of love and remembrance shared.

"You'll be an old married woman when next we meet, Pen!"

"Come home soon, dear Will," Penelope whispered through dry lips.

"And you—Caro. You'll probably have you're latest novel published. Don't put me in it!"

"You won't be here to stop me!" his sister replied, with an attempt at cheerful defiance.

It was time to say goodbye to Jane. How small she looked, and how bereft. He took her in his arms and breathed in her perfume of lavender and lemon.

"Oh, Jane!" he murmured into her hair, "This living-happily-ever-after business is more complicated than I could have imagined!"

He bent to take a kiss, but she was quicker than he. Her arms were around her neck, and her lips were on his, warm and clinging. It was one of their secret kisses—a kiss for their bed. Tavington did not care. He kissed her back with a full heart, and then stood back.

"Keep well, my dearest Jane, and keep all this well, too, until I return."

She could not speak, but looked after him with red-rimmed eyes. He stepped into the carriage. The door was shut, and he looked back as they drove away. He could glimpse a bit of Jane and Caro, as they waved. He waved back, and then the coach turned, and they were gone.

He sat back, looking at his companions. "Fine day for a journey, isn't it?"

The Tavington women watched the coach until it passed Colchester House and turned south. Penelope and Caroline put their arms about each other's waists and went silently into the house together. Rose and Jenny, with a nod from Jane, took the babies back to the nursery. Ash grasped Jane's hand tightly, while they stood side by side.

"'S'it possible to see Ned today?" Ash asked suddenly. "His Mamma said we could play in the park when it was warm."

"I suppose we could," Jane agreed. "Yes. We'll go fetch Ned after a bit and the two of you shall sail your boats."

"Could there be chocolate for after?"

"Why not?"

She smiled and took him back inside. Rivers shut the door behind them.

* * *

Note-- If a critical mass of reviews is attained, there will be a bonus chapter:

An Epilogue in Summer 

_Je ne sais quoi_—I don't know what

_Jolie laide_—difficult to translate—it could imply "so ugly she's pretty," or "ugly and pretty at once," or "interesting despite her ugliness."

Richard Cosway was one of the most famous of late 18th century miniature painters. His wife, Maria, was also a notable artist—and a writer and a one-time lover of Thomas Jefferson.


	75. The Summer of 1782: An Epilogue

**Chapter 75: The Summer of 1782, An Epilogue**

Summer. Warm, beautiful summer. Jane had forgotten the pleasure of the sun's heat soaking through to her bones. She might protect her complexion with a broad-brimmed hat and a sunshade, but while at Wargrave, she spent much of the time outside, strolling through the gardens, playing with the children, or riding in Emily's pretty little pony-cart. Jane's proposal of a horseback party was met with horror by everyone else: they were too frightened for her, in her current condition. She resigned herself to riding next year. She could bear up well enough, considering all the other things there were to do.

Lucy had been delivered of her little girl on the sixth of June, and had had a difficult time. She and little Eleanor seemed out of danger, but Mrs. Protheroe needed rest, the man-midwife in attendance declared. Jane offered to take Ned to Wargrave, and the suggestion was looked upon favorably.

They traveled slowly, so many women and children--and two of the women with child. Lord Wargrave, knowing that Jane would not want to leave her sister at such a time, had invited Lady Fanshawe and her step-daughter as well, happy to have a full house. He and Emily had gone to Wargrave a week after their marriage, and were delighted to open the Hall to their family.

It was not as crowded as the last family gathering, for of course Penelope was not there, but at her home at Templar's Grange, some five miles away. Caroline was spending the summer there with her, and was at work on a new novel, but the two sisters visited at Wargrave Hall often. Strakes was at Old Wargrave Hill nearly every day. He and Bordon and John had found some remarkable relics, and every Sunday saw the entire party gathered for dinner, followed by a presentation of the week's discoveries. As each layer was delicately examined, Wargrave Hill was yielding up its secrets.

"If we go too fast, we'll miss some real treasures," Bordon advised.

Strakes had reluctantly agreed. He longed to reach the Roman remains, but they had found much of interest in the medieval miscellany: coins, of course; a brooch of reddish gold, a cracked stone carved with the Tavington arms, as they were described in the fourteenth century. In a corner, sheltered by ruined masonry, they had found an old book, nearly illegible, but with its colored illuminations still bright. They agreed it was a missal, but were divided about its exact date.

Jane thought Strakes seemed happy enough, in his grim, undemonstrative way. He was certainly properly attentive to Penelope, and unfailingly civil to Caroline—as indeed he was to them all. Perhaps "happy" was not exactly the right word, Jane decided. "Content" was more accurate. Strakes seemed to have found deep peace with his new, modest fortune, and the acquisition of a pleasant home and a devoted wife.

Whether Penelope was so completely content was different question. Jane could not bring herself to ask about the couple's intimate relations. Watching them carefully, she decided that was not the rub. Penelope seemed physically fond of her husband: she touched him gently, seemed to be comfortable in his presence, pressed close to him when he offered his arm. She was restless, though, when anything was said of her previous charities in London, wondering if people were suffering because she was not there, wondering if things were not getting done because she was not there to do them. Jane guessed that the life of a country lady was proving an awkward fit, and suggested Penelope interest herself in the parish and its school. Mrs. Hindley was a nice enough woman, and Christabel was a sweet girl. The two of them would be good, daily company for her sister-in-law. Lord Wargrave might be Larrowhead's squire, but he was not much there, and Mr. and Mrs. Strakes would serve well enough as representatives of the gentry.

Jane liked Templar's Grange. It was a pretty house, rather than a grand or imposing one. The yellow color gave it a cheerful aspect, as they approached it through an inviting avenue of elm trees. More importantly, Jane saw that Penelope was pleased with it—even to the little pianoforte in the old-fashioned square drawing room. They were invited to dinner, and Jane admired the low, beamed ceiling and alcoved windows. The gardens were very neglected and overgrown, and the newly hired gardeners had much to do.

"We should have Lady Sarah come down to supervise," Jane laughed. "She would be mad with joy to have new gardens to oversee!"

Strakes had smiled slightly, but assured Jane that he had the project well in hand. "I have considered the matter for years, and have given the men precise diagrams as to plantings and locations. In a year—or perhaps three—the gardens will be as they ought."

"Of course."

It was at after that dinner that Penelope had hesitantly, fearfully confided to Jane that she thought she might be expecting a child. Jane took her aside, as the others enjoyed Caroline's performance on the pianoforte, and asked her brief, pointed questions, and then assured her that she was correct. Penelope was more alarmed than pleased.

"Jane—I am nearly forty years old! It is difficult enough for you young women! I confess that I am a little frightened. I suspect that my dear Oliver will be pleased, of course. He has said little about it, but I believe he has always wished for a child of his own—even if only so he could teach a child as he thinks one ought to be taught! But how will I manage?"

A quiet discourse on pregnancy and its demands followed. Jane spoke of the need for good food and exercise, for calm and comfort and cheerfulness.

"It is useless to be frightened. You are a healthy woman and will be well cared for. It is in the hands of God. Think of a little one of your own! Would you like a boy or girl?" Jane asked.

"Oh! I really cannot say! Little girls are so enchanting—dear little Fanny, and now Lucy's little Nell! I suspect that my dear Oliver would prefer a son, though, and perhaps that would be best—yes—I think a son would be most to him. It is a noble thing to educate a son and give him his chance in life. I look at your fine little boys and see such shining futures for them. Well, as you say, it is in God's hands. I shall look to my baby linen and accept what is to come. Is it _terribly_ painful?"

"Well—no one can say that it is a pleasure, but it is over and then one has a child to show for it, dear Penelope! It is not like the headache, or the toothache, or catching a fingernail on the keyboard! One suffers with a purpose, and then one forgets the discomfort almost immediately. What I was not prepared for was how tired I was afterwards. It is important that you find a trusty nursemaid. And, of course, you must set up your nursery. A child will give yet another worthy villager employment, remember!" Jane laughed at the idea, knowing that it would please Penelope to know that she could offer wages to needy people. She did not want to talk much more about childbirth and its terrors. Letty was close by, and within two months of her time. She would not have gone out at all, except to a family gathering, and was looking as if she regretted the exertion a little.

Harmonia was disappointed that the Hindleys had not been invited, but consoled herself with the knowledge that Lady Fanshawe would allow her the use of the carriage to call on the Larrowhead vicarage whenever Harmonia liked. She was enjoying her time in the country. She was learning to ride, for Lady Tavington was not able to make use of the ponies. Harmonia, instead, was taken out by Lord and Lady Wargrave themselves, and put on adorable little Midnight. The exercise was delightful to her, and she longed to venture farther every day. Five miles was no great distance: perhaps when she was a more practiced horsewoman, she could ride all the way to see Christabel by herself!

-----

Jane had her correspondence, of course. Miss Gilpin wrote often, and this summer was full of news about her nieces' doings. Deborah Porter was spending the summer at the vicarage in Biggleswade, and Miss Gilpin had written of the girl's remarkable improvement. Jane was unsurprised: Deborah's letters were becoming a real pleasure to read. Briefly, Jane considered inviting the family to London in the coming winter. The Gilpin girls would enjoy a taste of town diversions. The house in Mortimer Square was certainly big enough to receive them all comfortably.

Another of the pleasures of Wargrave was that of spending time with Moll. Mrs. Young seemed to have been the model from which the term "great with child," was coined. Her belly was much larger than Letty's, though they were both due to bear their children in August. There was some speculation from the local midwife, Mrs. White, that Moll was indeed carrying twins. Moll's belly was listened to and rubbed, and the old woman narrowed her eyes and nodded sagely. Moll was perfectly calm about it, and told Jane that she would just as soon have a pair of children as not.

"Give me a head start making a family!" she declared. She was very happy these days. She had received the first payment of her pension, and no newly-made lord could have been happier with his lot in life. "Look at me! A fine, cozy house of my own, handsome clothing, hand-painted crockery, a good-looking man. And now some money of my own—enough to live on comfortable for the rest of my life! I tell you, ma'am, there's many a lady in this kingdom not as well off as me!"

Jane freely admitted that was true. Moll's situation was the envy of the village. With her pregnancy, she had withdrawn from active work at the Hall. Between them, Jane and Moll had agreed it was for the best. Lady Wargrave was the mistress here now, and she had installed her own Sally as head of the nursery. Moll did not wish to cause trouble. Their own Rose was there, and would look after the boys with the help of her sister Damaris, newly employed in the Wargrave nursery. Moll was content to accept visits from her favorite little ones in the comfort of her own kitchen. Jane, sensing Moll's special fondness for William Francis, often gave him to her to cuddle. Tom, more active and inquisitive, would toddle about the cottage, watched by Jane.

Ash would come too, and give Moll a kiss, and then run out again to play with his friends. Lord Wargrave had furnished the West Pudding House as a play-place for Fanny and the rest of the mob of children. With a little table and chairs, a box of toys, a cupboard with a dainty tea set, it made a palace and a paradise for the children. It was their headquarters every fine day, and even when it rained, they begged to have their dinner there. The servants found it no more trouble to take trays out to the Pudding House than to take them all the way up to the second floor, and so the children were indulged with good-humoured affection. At Lord and Lady Wargrave's pressing request, Harriet visited nearly every day, bringing Susan and Robin. A visitor would have been hard put to discover whose children were whose.

Jane studied her own boys with care. Ash was blooming, recovered from his grief at the loss of—well—what to call him? That was a problem in itself. Ash had always called William, "Kernah," but William was no longer a colonel. He had become a general too recently for the title to mean anything to Ash. Jane had explained about the knighthood, and suggested that Ash call his brother "Sir William," now. Ash scowled, as annoyed by the change of name as he was by the man's absence, but finally agreed that "Sir William" would do. In the first weeks, he had asked Jane repeatedly when said "Sir William" was coming home, but now he had stopped talking about him. He and Ned and Robin were thick as thieves, romping on their stick horses and running races. Robin would soon be breeched, but for now, the three of them were still in children's petticoats. Rose would be happy when Ash was trained thoroughly enough to be dressed as a little boy. John had proclaimed that when the boys were breeched, he would consider them old enough to begin learning to ride a-horseback.

Jane sighed to herself. A little boy. When William returned, Ash would certainly greet him in the jacket and breeches of a little boy. Another rite of passage that her husband would miss.

Tom was getting about well, now, and even saying a few words. He was a remarkably strong, fearless child, much bigger than her own William Francis. It was not surprising, since Tom was older by three months, and older yet, if one considered that William Francis had come a month early.

Her own son, however was holding his own. He was weaned now, drinking industriously from a cup, and using his spoon. He could toddle about—perhaps not as quickly as Tom, but he was certainly walking sturdily.

And he was talking. He had first said "Mamma" clearly in April, and Jane's heart had leaped at the precious sound. She had always talked to him quite a bit—even sung softly to him. Now he was picking up words every day—very, very quickly. Jane had suspected he was a clever child. She was certain now. His speech was easily equal to Tom's—better in fact, for he was beginning to use sentences, and it seemed Tom was learning from him, as well as from all the other children.

For Tom had called her "Mamma" too, following the smaller child's lead. Jane heard Rose try to correct him, and intervened. "Let him call me 'Mamma' if he likes," she ordered. "He is too little to understand all these complicated relations." She hoped she was doing the right thing. Ash always called her "Sister Jane," but that seemed too much to expect of a toddler. Considering her real relationship with Tom, she could not quite see allowing him to call her "Jane," as Ash had when he was tiny. If Ash asked her about it, she would tell him that Ash had always known Jane as his sister, but that Tom was too little to know the difference. When William came back someday, they would have to decide if the family should be informed of Tom's real parentage. As the months passed, and Tom continued to resemble his father, it seemed to her that it would be best to tell the truth and bear the scandal at once, rather than to have people whisper and speculate behind their backs. It would be best for Tom, certainly.

-----

It was no great surprise when Moll delivered early, on the eleventh of July. Even Jane, accustomed to South Carolina, acknowledged it was a miserably hot day. The heat did not improve the situation for Moll. She suffered a protracted, painful labor, and was exhausted and sweating by the time a tiny girl made her appearance. Mrs. White passed the baby to Jane, who glanced briefly at the red, wrinkled mite and promptly handed it off to the midwife's assistant to bathe and swaddle.

"You have a beautiful little daughter, Moll. She is healthy and perfect," she whispered in her friend's ear. Moll shut her eyes, breathing heavily.

"Not done yet, am I?" she grunted between clenched teeth.

"I'm afraid not, dear Moll. There is certainly another child about to come out."

Jane thought a second child should come sliding out directly, following the path the first had made. It proved rather more complicated than that. This child was in the wrong position, and the midwife had to move it. Jane held Moll's hand while the laboring woman screamed aloud. After a half-hour of blood and anguish, the second child emerged, feet first.

There was a moment of alarm, when the baby did not appear to be breathing. The midwife rubbed the tiny back, and there was a cough and a thin wail. Jane took a deep breath and told Moll that her son was alive.

-----

"Of course I will stand as a godmother!" Letty assured Jane. Bordon had previously explained to Moll that in England, a child would need three godparents. If a girl, two godmothers and a godfather, and the reverse if a boy. Moll had immediately begged Jane to be the first godmother, and asked if Lady Fanshawe would do the honour of serving as the other. Moll very much wanted her own Colonel to be godfather, and it was agreed that he would be recorded as such, though Lord Wargrave would stand as his proxy at the christening, and would be the little boy's second godfather himself.

Letty was very sorry not to have been present at the birth. "When I think of all that Moll has done for us--"

"It was for the best, dearest," Jane assured her. "It would only have distressed you. She had a very hard time."

"Twins! I thought bearing one child was bad enough. How she must have suffered."

"She now claims it was a mere nothing, but you know her. Mrs. White says she should recover, but it is very likely she will have no more children. The babies came early, being twins, and I think she was a little frightened for them." More cheerfully, she added, "Still, William Francis was an early baby too, and now no one can tell."

"Are they both red-haired?"

"Hardly any hair on their heads at all—though I think I saw a wisp of ginger on the girl's head. They are very fine, healthy children. I am informed they are to be christened as Jonathan and Jane, though Moll is already calling the little girl Jenny."

"Jane!" Letty smiled. "That is lovely!"

"The boy is named for Young's father, but as his mother was named Hepzibah, and Moll's mother was named Abishag, the two of them agreed on something else. I am touched, nonetheless."

"Jenny is a sweet name. I think that Sir William was right, suggesting it for you."

"Certainly not! Moll can have it and welcome!"

They were taking tea together in Letty's comfortable bedchamber. Jane was very glad that she had made this room pleasant in her days as Wargrave's chatelaine. Letty found it difficult to manage the stairs, and came down only for dinner and the family time in the drawing room afterwards. She was still glad she had come, though: glad to have the peace of the country; and very glad that Harmonia was happily occupied. She missed her friends in town—especially Bellini—but that gentleman wrote every few days, keeping her amused and informed.

Letty frowned. "I do want to attend the christening. Will it be very improper? I want to see Moll and the babies. I will walk very carefully."

"If you really want to go, we will go in the carriage, of course. In fact, I would prefer to drive Moll and the babies to the church, for that matter. She is a strong woman, but I see no reason to risk her."

The post arrived, and their share was brought up to them.

"Oh! Miss Burney's new novel!" Letty exclaimed, "_Cecilia!_ I cannot wait to read it. And here is another letter from Mr. Bellini. I shall read that first. He was going to tell me about some songs by Mozart that had come to him."

She took a sip of tea, and opened the letter, lounging comfortably on the daybed. A little table beside her was stacked with books, mostly about Italy. Letty was talking about taking a journey next year. She had written down her plans and shown them to Jane. Once she was out of mourning, there would be the Season. Harmonia could come out, but since Harmonia could not possibly marry for a few years, there was no reason the girl could not join her in seeing something of the world.

"Young men go on Grand Tours all the time. Why shouldn't young ladies? I long to see all the art and the historic sights, and I'm sure it will be good for Harmonia, too."

That was the plan. After the Season, she would take Harmonia and Mr. Bellini and set off to see France and Italy. Letty had a map that she was marking with a possible route. Calais, Rouen, Paris, Lyons, Nice, Genoa, Leghorn, Florence, Rome… she had lists of things to see, list of inns and interim stops, lists of things she would need, list of things she should know.

Jane had mildly reminded her sister of the problems of traveling with a baby. Letty had shrugged. "I shall have nursemaids to help me. I shall purchase a very large, very comfortable closed carriage. If I nurse her myself, I need not worry about exposing her to impure food and water. I should think it will easier while she is so tiny, than when she is Ash's age and wanting to run about!"

It would be better not to argue, Jane decided. She would have to leave the decision to Letty. Perhaps a trip to Paris would be enough for her—and she would discover by that time how awkward the journey would be. Jane wished she could go to Paris herself, but shuddered at the image of three howling small boys, all requiring fresh linen at the same time. And now there would be another baby…

Impossible. Utterly and completely impossible. She put it from her mind when she saw that she had a letter herself.

It was lodged under the novel, and a very stained object it was. Jane hoped it was from William, but saw immediately that it was in a hand she did not know—the hand of an uneducated woman. She broke the seal, wondering what it could be.

"Good God!" she shouted, glancing over the contents.

Letty was startled, and nearly dropped her tea cup. "What is wrong!"

"It is that poor woman, Mrs. Watkins! The one who disappeared along with her sister! Listen to this!"

_"--We were tole we were to receive an Inhairitance from our Uncle the Draper in Bristol, but that we must be quick, or it would be taken for Taxes. So we left and gave a letter to the Gentleman who had brought the News, and he said he would frank it for us, and see that it was sent, but he was a Liar before God, and he will be judged on the Day. We were driven at great speed in a Carriage and given some Warming Drink, but it did put us fast asleep, and when next we opened ar eyes we were at See._

_Oh mam if you new how we have suffered, you wood weep Tears for Pity. We had weeks of bad Air and food not fit for Pigs, and we come at last to the Island of Jamayky, with scarce a Penny in ar Pockets. We pray you mam to releeve us and to deliver us—"_

"Oh, the poor creatures!" Letty cried. "How horrible!"

"They are not without skills," Jane reminded her. "Perhaps they have been able to find employment. I shall send a letter with money for passage to them immediately." She read the rest of the letter, and frowned. It looked to have been sent sometime in early April. The poor women were in dire straits. It would be likely be another two months before anything from Jane would reach them. She hoped they could survive that long.

"Perhaps Lord Wargrave could do something?" Letty wondered.

"Yes-- that's a good idea! I'll ask Lord Wargrave to write to the governor of Jamaica. Perhaps the governor can find and assist them." She blew out a breath. "At least they were not murdered. As cruel as the trick was that those wicked men played them, they at least spared those innocent women their lives."

Letty understood her well enough. Protheroe had made very discreet inquiries over the past few months. Mrs. Venable had had many names over the years, but in the end only one life to lose. Dead women were found in the Thames fairly often, and Protheroe had obtained intelligence of at least four who matched Mrs. Venable's description—very roughly, considering the condition of some of the bodies. Very probably, someone had not wanted to trust her tongue.

Jane's news, predictably, caused a great stir at dinner. John promised to send the letter at once, and told Jane to give her letter to him, so that everything would go to Jamaica with the rest of the official correspondence. He was in great spirits these days, not only because of his marriage, but because of his new political connections. His friend Pitt was the newly-appointed Chancellor of the Exchequer, and it was growing more and more likely that John himself would be given a post of some responsibility.

"I'd like to talk to those women on their return," he remarked. "Like to ask for a description of the blackguard who gulled them."

"Perhaps, my dear," his wife suggested mildly, "it might be best to let the matter go."

John shook his head in denial. "Can't, my love. Can't let it go. I might not have liked the old woman—my mother, that is—but it's my duty to try to find out what really happened."

Emily sighed. "I just don't want anyone else to suffer, my dear. Sometimes it's simply better not to know things one can't do anything about."

-----

All in all, it was the loveliest summer that Jane could remember. She looked at her little portrait of William from time to time, sorry that he was not here to enjoy it with her. She had had the miniature mounted by a jeweler very elaborately, in an oval frame of gold set with a single band of seed pearls. William gazed at her directly, his handsome face composed and serious. She had known she could not expect a letter before late July. As July turned to August, she became impatient, wondering if he had forgotten her.

Moll's children were duly christened, and given presents reflecting the affection Jane and Letty—and many others—felt for their beloved Mrs. Young. Moll recovered gradually, taxed by caring for two babies. Jane, knowing exactly what that was like, felt for her, and saw to it that a village girl came to help her every day. Two weeks passed, and one day Jane was startled, on her daily visit, to see Moll on her knees in her kitchen garden, telling the carrots what she thought of them. The babies were in baskets, shaded by a tree.

"Moll! Should you be doing that?"

"Oh, good day to you, ma'am. Couldn't hardly stand lying there like a slugabed. This garden's about to go to seed. Nothing like a little pottering outside to set a woman up."

"I suppose." Jane relented and sat on the grass to admire the babies. The boy was a little larger than the girl, but not by much. They were still very much new babies, pink and wriggling, their eyes the dark blue that gave no hint of their ultimate color. The wisps of hair on the girl's head were a pale reddish-blonde. The boy had even less hair, but that appeared to be dark like his father's.

"They are beautiful children."

"Well," Moll said grimly, tugging at another carrot, "They're likely the only ones I'm going to have, so I'll do my best for them!"

"Oh, Moll—"

"No, ma'am. I told Mrs. White to tell me the honest truth, and I can bear it. I'd have liked to have filled the house brimful, but it's not to be. I've got these two, and I reckon there's some good in that, for what Tom and I have will go farther if we've just the two. I'll look after them like no woman's ever looked after her young'uns. We've got a good home and a bit of money, and there's no reason these two can't make their way in the world just fine." She chuckled, tossing another carrot on the heap. "They'll go to school, too—which is more than I ever did—right here. Mighty convenient to have a school just down the lane. My boy might even be a clerk someday, and sit in an office writing papers. My girl won't have to learn her letters catch-as-catch-can. They'll have a good life, and I reckon it's mostly due to you, ma'am."

"My dear Moll," Jane said softly. "You saved my life. And more than once! I'm your children's godmother. You know that I'll always do whatever I can for you and these little ones. If your son applies himself, of course he can have a decent education. We'll just have to see. Perhaps he'll be as big and brave as his mother, and nothing will suit him but to go for a soldier!"

Moll grunted, "I'll give him a thrashing if he so much as breathes a word of it! I reckon the only thing worse would be him wanting to go to sea."

"I thought you liked being at sea."

"Doesn't follow that I'd want my son to do it! No, ma'am. There's plenty to do here—he could 'prentice a trade, or learn to write for his living. No more soldiering in _my_ family!"

----- 

The heat moderated, and the weather was splendid: a pearly blend of warm sunshine and gentle rain in due measure. The Tavington family heard the news of the outside world with some detachment. A rapturous letter came from the Earl of Colchester, announcing the birth of his long-awaited grandson, named, not surprisingly, William. Kitty was as well as could be expected. Jane wrote the proper letters of congratulation, and returned to her own concerns. On the eighteenth day of August, the sky's zenith was the blue of precious sapphires. A light breeze carrying the fragrance of the rose garden wafted gently into the open casements of Letty's bedchamber. On that fair day, her daughter was born.

Her labor was not as wretched as Moll's, though eight hours seemed quite long enough to Letty. Jane sat with her, and read to her, and the children were taken to visit Mrs. Bordon, who kindly stayed home from church that Sunday to care for them. There was a picnic on the grass, and afterwards the men attempted to teach the children the rudiments of cricket. As the afternoon wore on, tired boys and girls were allowed to nap on blankets wherever they liked.

Mrs. White came, and declared it was all going well. Letty's maids hovered. Emily spent a great deal of the day with them, and was present to witness the arrival of the last child of Viscount Fanshawe.

"Now, Letty," Jane coaxed, as she laid the precious bundle in her sister's arms. "Have you changed your mind about her name?"

"No. She is Diana." Letty whispered back. "She is to be called Diana, like the goddess."

"The Honourable Diana de Vere," Jane repeated, liking the sound of it. "Lovely Diana de Vere, my dear!" She laughed, admiring the tiny rosebud face.

"A beautiful child!" Emily said warmly. "Not wrinkled like so many. I am certain she will be a beautiful woman one day. What enormous eyes she has!"

Letty smiled too, very tiredly, her fingertip touching a minute nose. "She is lovely. Altogether lovely," she whispered, remembering briefly a compliment Lord Fanshawe had once paid her. "She must have more names. I shall add my name—and Mama's name, too—all fancied up so she wouldn't recognize it." A little sadness crept into her voice. "'Biddy' de Vere wouldn't do, I know. No one would understand it. 'Bridget' is a very old-fashioned name, but it isn't unknown, and if I say it is for her grandmother, that will explain it."

Jane considered, remembering her beloved Biddy as well. If anyone had every truly been Jane's mother, it was she. "I wonder what Lord Fanshawe's mother's name was."

"I really do not know," Letty blinked, realizing it. "He never spoke of her. I suppose I could ask."

"I hardly think you need to trouble yourself," Emily smiled. "Diana Laeticia Bridget de Vere is name enough."

Jane agreed. "Moll would say that it's a mighty long name for such a little mite! She'll have plenty to do to live up to it!"

"And born on a Sunday!" Emily laughed. "You know the old rhyme:

_Monday's child is fair of face;_

_Tuesday's child is full of grace;_

_Wednesday's child is full of woe;_

_Thursday's child has far to go;_

_Friday's child is loving and giving;_

_Saturday's child works hard for a living;_

_But the child that is born on the Sabbath day,_

_Is bonny and blithe and good and gay."_

This bit of poetry was much discussed: Letty enjoying the prognostications for her own little girl; the others discussing Lucy's daughter being someone who was "loving and giving," and Moll's children having "far to go."

Letty was tired, and fell asleep quite suddenly. Emily left to announce the birth to the rest of the party. Jane found a chair in the corner, and allowed Mrs. White and the maids to put the room in order. Little Diana was placed in her pretty cradle, for Letty wanted her near, and not banished to the nursery. All things being equal, and with no husbands in the case, Jane agreed that a newborn would be better off far from the noisy nursery.

Jane was tired too, and dozed in her chair. The baby squeaked faintly, and Jane's eyes opened wide. Diana was quite all right.

"I think I shall nurse her after all. For a little while, at least. She is so sweet." Letty was awake, and propped up on an elbow, looking down at the baby with tender pride.

"Would you like to hold her?"

"Oh, yes! Where is Mrs. White?"

"Gone to get a bite to eat. She'll return soon. I'm glad you've decided to nurse her. I'm sure it will do you both good."

"I might as well, especially since she's the only child I shall have," Letty agreed quietly.

"But Letty!" Jane objected. "You are still young. Once you are out of mourning you will be much sought after. I suspect you could find a very nice husband—possibly—" Jane blushed a little "—someone younger—more appealing—"

"No," Letty answered, in the same calm way. "I shall never remarry. No man will ever be my master again. I am free now, and I shall be free for the rest of my life."

"You _may_ fall in love," Jane pointed out. "It's not something that can be controlled."

"I _may_," Letty agreed, "but I hope not. Or if I do, I hope I can keep it pluton—what is the word?"

"Platonic?" Jane asked.

"Yes, platonic," Letty agreed. "That would be best. I should like to have a good, trusty friend, but I don't want to be ordered about any more, and if one marries, one is going to be ordered about."

"William doesn't order me about!"

"Oh, yes, he does!" Letty declared. "He's always telling you what to do, and where you're going to live, and that he's going away, and that you must put up with whatever he does. That's perfectly all right, since you haven't quarreled in some time, but I want to live exactly as I like now. A husband would not let me go off to the Continent whenever I liked."

"That is _certainly_ true."

Jane's long-awaited letter arrived five days later, the day after The Honourable Miss Diana Laeticia Bridget de Vere had been christened in Wargrave Church. Jane was again a godmother, and Lord and Lady Wargrave stood for the child as well. Now named properly, the other children were permitted to gather round to admire. Susan and Fanny wanted to make a pet or plaything of the baby girl, and Ash grew very loud and excited when he understood that the baby was his niece.

"I'm an uncle!" he shouted. "Uncle Ash! She's _my_ little girl, since she doesn't have a Papa anymore." He could not be persuaded that Thomas was also an uncle, since it was patently ridiculous that a baby like Tom could be anybody's uncle.

When the letter came, Jane was in Letty's room, admiring the baby, so distracted by the sweet little girl she hardly had time to look at the missive in her hand. Then she looked again, saw who had sent it, and sat down to read it at once. Everyone in the house would want to know every detail of the letter, but Jane wanted to read it herself—just once—just to have the words for herself a little while.

Letty was asleep, her beautiful face grave, her black hair spread out on the pillow. Nemesis came stalking through the slightly opened door, and then jumped up in Jane's lap. Jane stroked the cat's silky ears absently as she read.

_July 5, 1782_

_New York City_

_My dearest Jane,_

_Perhaps it was cruel of me to wait nearly a week before writing to you, but I needed to look about before I could describe my situation. I miss you, and think of you often. Thank you for your foresight in providing me with your delightful picture. It is before me as I write, looking at me saucily, wondering what I am about!_

_I am well and safe. The voyage was—well—like a voyage—dull and monotonous, when not stormy and alarming. You have crossed the Atlantic and know all I would say. My cabin was adequately comfortable and the ship's officers well-conducted and gentlemanly. I spent a great deal of time studying my maps and books. I hope to prove a competent surveyor, in time. You laugh, no doubt, and applaud my zeal in learning a useful trade at last!'_

_St. Leger bore up fairly well. He is something of an arithmetician, which may prove useful later on. Lilly and Speke were wretchedly sick. I wondered for some days if Lilly would actually die, but he adjusted to the ship's movement at length, and began to be able to keep down food and water. My dragoon guard dealt better with the hardships of sea travel. One of them, Trooper Randall, I discovered, was a man of some education._

_Let me not mince words. Randall is a ruined gentleman. One finds them in the ranks sometimes. Usually they are the bane of a regiment, but Randall's situation is not entirely his fault, and he has endeavored to make the best of things. Ordinarily, he would have a good chance of rising to officer, but the army is shrinking these days. If Randall continues to prove himself worthy, I will recommend that he apply for a commission in one of the West Indies regiments. They are always in need of officers. It's a risk, as so many die of disease, but it would give him a chanceto rebuild his life._

_I arrived: with not a great deal of eclat, alas. Sir Guy received me very suspiciously, as he wonders if I mean to try to traduce and replace him. I presented my commission from the King, and he grunted in response. I was sent to Long Island to be out of his way, but that was quite all right, as it allowed me to see the men I have come to assist._

___Some of them are not present, of course. A number of the provincial troops are being held prisoner in Pennsylvania, and have no hope of release until a final settlement is made. I have now a comprehensive list of them, and of the officers who sacrificed themselves to stay with them. Of my old Green Dragoons, it was decided among the officers to draw lots. _

___I was told this by none other than your distant cousin and my old officer, James Wilkins! He was there when I visited. He is as enormously tall as ever, but rather thinner. It is clear that he has suffered a good deal._

___My dear Jane, I cannot describe my touching reunion with my old regiment. How happy the men were to see me, expecting me to see justice done them! At least I could tell them of their new situation and the increase in pay. Very welcome news it was, too! _

___I dined with Wilkins and with Hangar of the British Legion. Of the two, I prefer Wilkins, but Hangar knows what is afoot for the Nova Scotia settlement. I think I must go there myself, and see the lands that the governor there has agreed to be set aside for the Loyalist settlements. When I was in London, I was warned that the quality of the soil varies greatly throughout the colony. I would not want my men to receive barren rock as their reward. _

___Wilkins was disengaged, and so I have added him to my staff at my own expense. He has been able to tell me all the details of the Southern Campaign (the ones that Tarleton has not deigned to mention) and about the general misery of the surrender. The men's morale is not good, as you can imagine. However, they are billeted decently, though many long to see their wives and children, all of whom were left in South Carolina._

___Of course, you already know that. When Cornwallis moved north, he left everyone else at Camden, and they evacuated south with us. To my surprise, I met one of those women. I do not know if you remember Nan Haskins, who was a companion of Moll in those days? She married a Sergeant Grant of the Charlestown garrison, but the man died in battle some months ago, and Mrs. Grant decided to return north to her family in New York. She has a babe in arms, and both managed to survive an arduous journey. She now lives with her aged mother and a younger brother and sister. She once again works as a regimental laundress. The family farm north of the city is lost, and her family's only hope is starting anew in another colony. You may tell Moll that Mrs. Grant is well, and is living a life of unexampled virtue. I am aware that there was talk about her in the Carolinas, but here the woman has a character to lose, and she has quite devoted herself to her little son and the rest of her family. When I go to Nova Scotia, I am considering taking them along as servants, and then seeing that they are provided for. Her deceased husband's share as a sergeant comes to some five hundred acres, which is three times the size of their stolen farm._

___Do you remember young Harry Nettles? He is as pleasant and sensible as ever. He asked after you particularly, and so I granted him a favour I allow few others: I showed him your picture. He admired it for some time, and said, "I shall never forget her. She is the most remarkable lady of my acquaintance." The 17th is rather bored and restless with the present stalemate. Very likely they will see the war through to its official end. They have managed to keep themselves well supplied with horses, and I obtained some from them. I plan to leave for Nova Scotia in a fortnight, and will write again when I arrive._

___In short, my Jane, I am very busy indeed. The town is anxious, ill at ease, in suspense, wondering when the word will come that they are to be sent into exile. So many rumors are rife here: rumors that the King will keep some sort of sovereignty over the colonies; or that the conflict will flare up again. I will take what comes._

___New York City is a grubby place of little distinction and no beauty. Harriet will have told you of the charm of the Hudson Valley, and all that is very true, but the valley is in rebel hands, unfortunately. Long Island has some natural attractions, at least. The sea view is fine in places, and the farmland is green and pleasant. The little villages here are much like little villages in England, only newer and rawer. Most of the folk are civil enough to a soldier, though I find that many wish to be paid on the spot. Wilkins tells me it is because of Ban Tarleton and his friends, who left America with nearly all their bills unpaid. Luckily, I am not in British Legion green, which seems to be notorious in these parts, not as a sign of a "butcher," but as the sign of a thief! _

___I am billeted in a rambling old house, rather decayed by years of little attention. Doggery sneered at it, but it was the best to be had. Unsurprisingly, he is well and a true stoic through all our adventures. Never having been to America, he was rather dismayed by the scarcity of everything. I explained that New York was generally civilised enough, but that the war has made necessities hard to obtain, and luxuries nearly impossible. Thank you for sending me out so well-supplied. _

___By the time this letter reaches you, so much will have happened. I am no doubt entirely behind the times. Send your letters through army channels to Headquarters in New York: that will be the quickest way. Tazewell will put them in the correspondence for you. This, of course, is a broad hint that I wish to hear from you soon. Tell me every bit of the family news: all the marriages and births first of all. I am very worried about Pen. If that fellow abuses her, I shall break every bone in his stork-like body. Describe John and Emily's happiness, I pray you. May they live long and prosperously. I daresay they will have a half-dozen children in the next ten years! I confess I feared for John's health. He was not caring for himself in the years of my absence. A well-ordered country life with a loving wife, not too much drinking-- and no late hours at the club-- are just what my brother needs._

___Keep up Caroline's spirits, especially. I daresay she feels deserted by Pen's marriage. She has you and her writing and her nephews to comfort her. I know that you, too, are discontented by a sister's departure, so you can best understand her. And I shall write to Caroline, asking that she do the same for you! I assure you that I shall write to everyone next week, so eventually everyone will have a letter of his own and will not have to hound you to read this one aloud._

___I say this, because this portion of the letter is for you alone, my Jane. I have been spoiled, I find: spoiled by the constant presence of your wit and spirit and affection and music. It is very disagreeable to become a temporary bachelor. I walk the muddy streets of New York, wishing I had you on my arm. At night, in my large, clammy, and rather unclean bed, I think of you, and miss a small, warm body curled insistently beside me. There seems little hope of a bath here, or at least the kind of bath that you know I prefer! _

___Your own spirits concern me, too, dear Jane. I know that you were not happy when your sister decamped for her own house. It is hard for you, I know, but life is full of upsets and changes, and I trust in your courage and adaptability to deal with this newest challenge. Two months gone! I wonder if you have weaned the boys. They are leaving off being babies, and becoming little boys, and I am missing it. I must not dwell on things that make me feel rather low. If I compare my own situation to that of my poor soldiers, I am very fortunate._

___--in everything but for being without you! I know that we will be together again, Jane. I know it. Perhaps it cannot be soon, but the day will come when you hear the wheels of a carriage outside Number Twelve, Mortimer Square. Rivers will open the door with a surprised exclamation. You will come—from the morning room, I think, or quickly down the steps from the drawing room, your petticoats billowing, your eyes alight. I shall seize you in my arms and kiss you until you gasp for breath. Ours has become a true marriage, my Jane. We need one another to be the best in ourselves. _

___You have been kissed. Did you feel it? Your portrait is amused, at least. I must not kiss it often, or I shall kiss you out of existence, and then I should be quite overthrown. Have I told you how much I love this picture? We shall have an enormous portrait of you painted when I return, to keep my portrait company in the ballroom. I wonder what you shall wear in it? Somehow I picture you in white. Yes, in white, with ribbons of rosy silk fluttering lightly in the painted air. To be sure, I would prefer a painting of you in your nightdress—or without—in my current state, but I shall simply have to use my imagination._

___If you have my picture about you, take it out now and look upon it. Do I not appear an honest man? I have not always been so, I confess: foolish and faithless I have been, but no more. You are my lady, my own Lady Tavington, and believe me, my Jane, _

___Your own true knight,_

___William Tavington_

_-----_

_I won't try to answer it now,_ Jane thought, scanning each paragraph, hardly able to take it all in. _I'll read the parts I can to the family, and then I'll keep the rest to myself._

Was it impossible for life to be perfect, even for a moment? There was always something amiss, it seemed. First she longed to escape her family; and then she did, but her husband had been unkind. Now at last, when he seemed fond enough, he was half a world away. Even the pleasure of titles and wealth were mixed with the sorrows of exile. She had brought Letty and Moll with her to England, expecting to have a pair of permanent companions. Now they had lives and homes and children of their own. 

She had always put off being happy, she realized. There was always something far off on the distant the horizon that was needed to satisfy her. From the days she had waited for Ralph to come home and take her away, she had been waiting for someone to make her happy. And now, would it be the same? Was happiness to be secured when her child was born, or the boys were breeched, or William had returned? 

Nemesis yowled, demanding her attention. The cat settled more comfortably on to her lap as she stroked it, and began purring. A sensible creature, to enjoy the moment to the fullest. A furry tail waved saucily, tickling Jane's nose. 

"Stop that, you impudent puss!" Jane laughed. 

"Is it the baby?" Letty murmured, her voice muzzy with sleep. 

"The baby is perfectly fine." Jane said, leaning over to pat her sister's hand. "I was talking to the cat." 

"Talking to the cat!" Letty laughed softly. She saw the papers in Jane's hand. "A letter?" 

"Yes. William at last. He's very well, New York is very grubby, and he has much to do. And he had a few sweet nothings for me." she added, growing slightly pink. "Nemesis was explaining to me that I should be happy." 

Letty reached for the tiny girl in blankets lying beside her. "It would be silly and ungrateful if _I_ were not happy. Sometimes I feel like my life is a fairy-tale." 

"If it were really a fairy tale we would be married to handsome princes." 

"Well," Letty pointed out, not unreasonably, "we _did_ marry handsome princes, in a way. Mine was already old," she whispered, "but he was still as good as a prince, and still handsome if you looked at him carefully. And your husband is as handsome as any could ask—" 

"But he is far away," Jane finished. "Nevertheless, I am resolved to be happy—to be happy today. I am no weak vessel, and shall not put it off. I shall play with the children and make music with Harriet. I shall smell the roses in the garden, and savor Maggie Jeffreys' joints and puddings. I shall be happy today. And I shall write to William, and tell him so." 

"My compliments to him," Letty said absently, too engrossed in Diana's minute perfection to pay much attention to anything else. 

Jane smiled at her sister, and thrust the letter into her pocket. She rose from the chair, carrying the complacent cat in her arms. Her petticoats rustled crisply, trailing on the ancient oak floor. She would keep her sister company, and later John would want to hear William's news. Then she would have a long walk about the Hall. Through the open, diamond-paned window, the lawn of Wargrave spread out before her, green and sumptuous. The breeze was redolent of summer blossoms and tilled earth. Carried on it were the high, piping voices of children at play—her children and her friends' children. Beyond lay the lane, the green woods, the church spire white in the confident sun. She loved this place, and she was happy.

* * *

Thank you to all my readers. This is indeed the end of _Tavington's Heiress._ If you have enjoyed reading it, I would very much appreciate you leaving a review, even if it is very brief. 

Of course, life goes on, even in fiction. Tavington did not come home until November of 1783, by which time his daughter Juliet Aurora was nearly a year old, having been born December 28, 1782. 

Many things happened in the meantime. Sebastian Strakes was born February 18, 1783. Penelope never quite recovered from the birth, and only lived another seven years. Sadly, she was predeceased by her sister. Caroline did indeed publish another successful novel in 1785, _Carolina, the History of an American Lady, _but developed bone cancer later that year and died in January of 1786. 

John and Emily had another daughter, Sarah, born May 19, 1783. John died in 1788 of a heart attack. He was at his club, White's, and had just won seventy thousand pounds. The money allowed the Dowager Lady Wargrave and her daughters to live very well, and for the girls to have rich dowries, but Emily would rather have had John than the money, and was heartbroken. Tavington, too, would much rather have had his brother than be the second Lord Wargrave. 

Lucy and Protheroe, on the other hand, lived to be very old indeed. Bordon and Harriet also lived very happily, especially after Bordon was appointed Bishop of Ely in 1791. 

Sebastian Strakes was something of a prodigy. His father began teaching him Latin and Greek when Sebastian had just turned five. He became a famous scholar, translator, and antiquarian. 

Diana de Vere was a spectacularly beautiful girl, dark-haired and blue-eyed, and broke any number of hearts in the course of her life. Her mother never remarried (or rather, did not marry publicly. There is some speculation that she married her close friend Bellini in a private ceremony, but kept her title and her independence. She had no other children.) 

The adventures of the boys at school would be a story in itself, but you can read _Tom Brown's Schooldays_ or _Stalky & Co._ instead. 

Ash became a lawyer and later a Member of Parliament. Thomas Manigault Rutledge (later Tavington) became a soldier, fighting in the Napoleonic Wars., and was very much loved by his father, whom he so closely resembled. Neither of Selina's children ever saw their mother again. 

William Francis Tavington's relationship with his father was not so smooth. He was never his brother's equal as an athlete, and his bookish nature was a puzzlement to his father. The Latin and mathematics prizes were all very well, but Tavington sometimes felt he was not able to communicate with his son. Even more incomprehensible was the boy's desire to learn music. Matters came to a head when young Will finished his degree at Cambridge and refused to join the army. William Francis was deeply hurt that his father did not understand what an accomplishment attaining Senior Wrangler (top prize in mathematics) really was. He turned to his mentors, Bishop Bordon and Uncle Strakes, for affection and counsel. Will remained at Cambridge to finish his Master's, and then left for a three-year voyage to the Southern Hemisphere to study astronomy. He had plenty of adventures himself, and proved to everyone else's satisfaction that he was a brave and resourceful man, though quicker with a plan than a sword. He became Lucasian Professor of Mathematics at Cambridge, and was for many years the President of the Royal Society. 

While Jane always championed William Francis to her husband, her own relationship with her daughter Juliet was complicated in its own way. Juliet was not quite as plain as her mother, but nowhere near as lovely as her cousin Diana. The girls were always expected to be best friends, but somehow that never quite worked out. Juliet much preferred the company of Jenny Young and her brother Jonathan, and the three would go riding and exploring and fishing together. Juliet read Mary Wollstonecraft's _Vindication of the Rights of Women,_and grew very vocal in her opinions about the silliness of traditional ladylike accomplishments. Between William's excellence on the pianoforte and flute, and Juliet's grasp of Latin, Greek, and algebra (taught to her secretly by her big brother), relationships within the family were sometimes quite strained. 

After suffering a distressing series of miscarriages and the death of a baby daughter, Jane had another child, John, who grew up to be a successful diplomat, writer, and man about town. He very sensibly married a very wealthy heiress, and was much seen in the company of the Prince of Wales and his brothers. 

Jenny and Jonathan Young indeed had far to go. I could write whole stories about them. Jonathan was a bright boy, and instead of being apprenticed, was sent to the cathedral school of St. Albans, and then spent a year as a sizar at Cambridge. He hated it, and tried to run away to the army. Tavington caught up with him, and finally made arrangements for the boy to join the East India Company as an officer. He was a great success, and eventually made a huge fortune in India. He returned, married a charming childhood friend (I won't say who), and supported his mother and the rest of his family in luxury. 

His sister Jenny had no desire to be a servant or a village housewife. She was an active, healthy girl, and as beautiful in her very different, tall, red-headed way, as Diana de Vere. When she turned sixteen and was about to be trained as a lady's maid, she ran away to the theatre. Her godmothers, Lady Wargrave and Lady Fanshawe, knew that there was no sending her back to Wargrave, and so she lived with Lady Fanshawe for a time, under her protection. She had a very successful stage career for ten years, until she married a gentleman: a young heir to a title. She lived happily ever after, and in her later years was much admired by the young Queen Victoria. 

What of Tavington and Jane? He stayed in the army, hating the idea of retirement. He would have been nearly seventy by the time of Waterloo, but Field-Marshal Bluecher was seventy-two at the time of the battle. Tavington was indeed governor of Gibraltar for a time, and then commanded cavalry in the Peninsula. He also found himself sent on missions from time to time, the purpose of which was often a matter of some secrecy. These missions took him to the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, to Russia, and to the Levant. Jane kept the home fires burning, but also accompanied Tavington on a few of his adventures. Very sensibly, she kept her pistol with her. 

I have hardly scratched the surface of the eventful lives of my characters. I have no time, for example, to write about the harrowing adventures of Deborah, Fanny, and Susan, when they were separated from the rest of their party in Paris in September of 1793. They survived. Thousands didn't. 


End file.
